V 


UN  v       .TV  OP 
CS.L  POfsNlA 
SAN  OIEQO 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIEGO 
by 

FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


Mrs»  Samuel,  H  +   Roberts 

donor 


<&? 
UK 


SIX  LECTURES 

ON  SOME 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY  ARTISTS 


\  Photograph] 


G.  F.  WATTS,  R.  A. 


SIX  LECTURES 

ON  SOME 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
ARTISTS 

ENGLISH  AND  FRENCH 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  ART  INSTITUTE  OF  CHICAGO 
BEING  THE 

SCAMMON  LECTURES 

FOR  THE  YEAR  1QO/ 
BY 

WILLIAM  KNIGHT 

EMERITUS  PROFESSOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY  IN  THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ST.  ANDREWS,  SCOTLAND 


COPYRIGHT 

THE  ART  INSTITUTE  OF  CHICAGO 
1909 


PUBLISHED  NOVEMBER,  1909 


Printed  and  for  Sale  by 

RALPH  FLETCHER  SEYMOUR  CO. 

THE  ALDERBRINK  PRESS 

FINE  ARTS  BUILDING 

CHICAGO 


NOTE 

THE  LECTURES  PRESENTED  IN  THIS 
VOLUME  COMPRISE  THE  THIRD  SE- 
RIES DELIVERED  AT  THE  ART  INSTITUTE 
OF  CHICAGO  ON  THE  SCAMMON  FOUNDA- 
TION. THE  SCAMMON  LECTURESHIP  IS 
ESTABLISHED  ON  AN  AMPLE  BASIS  BY 
THE  BEQUEST  OF  MRS.  MARIA  SHELDON 
SCAMMON,  WHO  DIED  IN  1901.  THE  WILL 
PRESCRIBES  THAT  THESE  LECTURES 
SHALL  BE  UPON  THE  HISTORY,  THEORY, 
AND  PRACTICE  OF  THE  FINE  ARTS 
(MEANING  THEREBY  THE  GRAPHIC  AND 
PLASTIC  ARTS),  BY  PERSONS  OF  DISTINC- 
TION OR  AUTHORITY  ON  THE  SUBJECT 
OF  WHICH  THEY  LECTURE,  SUCH  LEC- 
TURES TO  BE  PRIMARILY  FOR  THE  BENE- 
FIT OF  THE  STUDENTS  OF  THE  ART 
INSTITUTE,  AND  SECONDARILY  FOR 
MEMBERS  AND  OTHER  PERSONS.  THE 
LECTURES  ARE  KNOWN  AS  "THE  SCAM- 
MON LECTURES." 


PREFACE. 

The  following  pages  contain  the  Scammon 
Lectures  delivered  at  Chicago  in  the  spring  of 
1907,  along  with  one  or  two  addenda  inserted, 
which  were  promised  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
course.  It  was  the  lecturer's  intention  to  develop 
them  into  a  larger  volume,  containing  a  more 
complete  discussion  of  the  subject;  but  circum- 
stances have  prevented  the  fulfilment  of  that 
desire.  Some  things  have  been  added  which  were 
not  spoken.  Others  have  been  omitted,  because 
they  were  more  suited  for  an  oral  address  than 
for  a  printed  book.  Much  of  the  discussion  is 
fragmentary,  because  the  lectures  were  not  in- 
tended for  advanced  scholars  or  mature  art- 
critics,  but  rather  for  students  who  had  not  pur- 
sued their  researches  very  far. 

The  delay  which  has  occurred  in  sending  them 
to  press  has  been  due  to  my  wish  to  add  numer- 
ous notes  and  appendices  to  them;  but  the  de- 
mands of  a  somewhat  busy  life  have  called  me  to 
other  work.  I  therefore  now  hand  them  over 
to  the  Director  of  the  Art  Institute  of  Chicago, 
in  the  hope  that,  in  their  printed  form,  they  may 
be  of  use  to  some  of  those  who  heard  them  deliv- 
ered, and  to  others  who  may  chance  to  read 
them. 


CONTENTS. 

LECTURE  I Page  13 

Some  characteristics  of  the  genius  of  Turner. 

LECTURE  II Page  41 

Modern  Landscape  Art  in  England  and  France. 

LECTURE  III Page  69 

Ruskin,   as  Art-critic    and    as   Moralist,   with 
some  personal  reminiscences. 

LECTURE  IV Page  Q$ 

The  Pre-Raphaelites,  especially  Dante  Gabriel 
Rossetti,  with  reminiscences. 

LECTURE  V Page  127 

George  Frederick  Watts,  with  reminiscences. 

LECTURE  VI Page  161 

Edward  Burne-Jones  and  others. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY  J.  W.  M.  TURNER 6  PLATES 

Following  Lecture  I,  page  13 

TINTERN  ABBEY I 

NORHAM  CASTLE  ON  THE  TWEED  ....  -II 

CROSSING  THE  BROOK Ill 

THE  GOLDEN  BOUGH IV 

THE  OLD  TEMERAIRE V 

APPROACH  TO  VENICE VI 

BY  J.  B.  COROT 4  PLATES 

Following  Lecture  II,  page  41 

COROT:    PAINTED  BY  HIMSELF    ....  VII 

LA  ROUTE  D'  ARRAS VIII 

VUE  DE  ToSCANE IX 

UNE  MATINEE X 

BY  JEAN  FRANCOIS  MILLET 9  PLATES 

Following  Lecture  III,  page  69    . 

PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF XI 

PASSAGE  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE       ....  XII 

THE  SOWER XIII 

THE  GLEANERS XIV 

KNITTING  SHEPHERDESS XV 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE XVI 

THE  ANGELUS XVII 

THE  SHEPHERDESS  [1869] XVIII 

THE  WOOD  SAWYERS XIX 

BY  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 11  PLATES 

Following  Lecture  IV,  page  95      ... 

PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF 

ECCE  ANCILLA  DOMINI 

"BEATA  BEATRIX" 

"AUREA  CATENA" 

DANTE'S  DREAM 

LA  DONNA  DELLA  FINESTRA       .... 

ROSA  TRIPLEX 

PROSERPINA 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  AND  HER  MOTHER 
GIRLHOOD  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MARY  .... 
FORD  MADOX  BROWN 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

BY  GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS 15  PLATES 

Following  Lecture  V ,  page  i*j 

PORTRAIT  OF  HIMSELF,  AGED  17    .        .        .        .  XXXI 

DR.  JOACHIM XXXII 

LORD  TENNYSON XXXIII 

RUSSEL  GURNEY XXXIV 

HOPE XXXV 

NAPLES  AND  MT.  VESUVIUS XXXVI 

THE  COURT  OF  DEATH XXXVII 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD XXXVIII 

ROBERT  BROWNING XXXIX 

THE  DWELLER  IN  THE  INNERMOST       .       •.        .  XL 

GEORGE  MEREDITH XLI 

LORD  LYTTON XLII 

WILLIAM  MORRIS XLIII 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS XLIV 

GOOD  LUCK  TO  YOUR  FISHING    ....  XLV 

BY  EDWARD  BURNE- JONES 5  PLATES 

Following  Lecture  VI,  page  161  . 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS XL VI 

THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM  (fragment)      .        .  XLVII 

VESPERTINA  QUIES XLVIII 

AURORA XLIX 

THE  GOLDEN  STAIRS    ....  L 


SIX  LECTURES 

ON  SOME 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
ARTISTS 


LECTURE  FIRST 

SOME  CHARACTERISTICS  OF  THE 
GENIUS  OF  TURNER 

Y  aim  in  this  course  of  Lectures 
will  be  in  some  respects  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  my  accom- 
plished predecessors,  as  they 
have  been  written  more  with  a 
view  to  suggest  than  to  teach; 
and  because  I  wish  to  open  up  some  pathways  not 
yet  familiar  to  everyone,  rather  than  to  traverse 
those  districts  of  which  all  students  of  Art  have 
some  knowledge. 

The  specialty  of  the  group  of  artists  who  will 
come  before  us,  and  the  abiding  charm  of  their 
work,  is  the  way  in  which  each — in  a  different 
manner — dealt  with  what  I  venture  to  call  ulti- 
mata in  Art;  that  is  to  say,  with  subjects  which 
the  ordinary  eye  does  not  see,  because  they  are 

[13] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

remote  from  commonplace.  The  result  has  been 
that,  whether  in  landscape  or  in  figure-paint- 
ing— in  their  representations  of  Nature,  or  of 
Humanity — they  have  opened  up  new  pathways 
for  us,  suggesting  much  more  than  they  have 
disclosed.  They  have  all  carried  us,  more  or 
less,  from  the  real  to  the  ideal;  disclosing  higher 
existences,  through  lower  symbols;  so  that  to 
what  is  sometimes  said  in  disparagement,  or  in 
criticism — "that  is  not  what  I  ever  saw  in 
Nature,"  or  "that  is  not  what  the  man,  or  the 
woman  was,  when  I  saw  them" — the  reply  is 
just,  and  adequate,  "No;  it  is  not  what  you  then 
saw,  but  what  you  might  have  seen,  what  Nature 
was  about  to  disclose  to  sympathetic  souls,  but 
did  not  to  your  eye  at  that  particular  time;  and, 
in  reference  to  portraiture,  you  missed  what  the 
man  or  the  woman  was  about  to  be,  what  they 
were  in  the  making,  but  had  not  then  attained 
to,  and  therefore  did  not  manifest  at  the  time  to 
your  perception."  This  is  most  obvious,  be- 
cause all  the  moods  of  Nature,  and  all  the  ex- 
pressions of  Humanity,  change. 

It  is  impossible  to  trace  out  by  retrospect  all 
the  causes  which  have  led  to  any  great  change— 
whether  in  artistic,  literary,  philosophical,  scien- 
tific or  social  revivals — in  the  history  of  the 
world;.  The  threads  of  influence  are  so  num- 
erous, and  their  interaction  is  so  very  subtle.  But 
the  study  is  a  most  fascinating  one;  and  while  of 

[14] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the  two  subjects  which — in  response  to  his  kind 
offer — I  suggested  to  your  director  that  I  should 
take  up — viz.,  I,  "The  Evolution  of  Greek  Art, 
in  relation  to  some  of  its  antecedents  in  the  East; 
and  the  causes  of  its  rise,  decline  and  fall;" 
or  II,  "The  Art  of  Britain  from  Turner  to  the 
Present  Day,  with  a  few  Continental  influences 
ab  extra'  I  chose  the  latter,  as  probably  the 
most  useful  to  the  audience  I  might  expect  in 
Chicago;  both  to  genuine  students  of  Art,  and 
amateur  listeners  to  lectures  upon  it.  In  the 
course  of  these  lectures  I  shall  have  to  glance 
at  one  or  two  other  than  British  developments  in 
Europe,  especially  in  France;  just  as  I  would 
have  dealt  with  collateral  movements  around 
Hellas  in  dealing  with  ancient  Greek  Art.  But 
it  will  be  mainly  to  English  work  that  my  lec- 
tures will  be  devoted. 

After  Turner  is  dealt  with,  I  must  speak  of 
Corot,  and  Jean  Francois  Millet  in  France.  I 
shall  then  return  to  England  and  try  to  trace 
the  evolution  of  British  Art  through  the  influence 
of  Ruskin,  and  the  work  of  that  remarkable 
Brotherhood  known  as  the  Pre-Raphaelites — 
especially  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti — and  then 
deal  with  such  masters  of  English  Art  as  George 
Frederick  Watts,  and  Edward  Burne-Jones, 
coming  down  to  other  workers  of  great  merit 
and  contemporary  fame. 


[15] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

ORN  in  London,  with  the  Strand  for 
his  playground  in  boyhood,  the  effect 
of  Turner's  upbringing  in  the  mighty 
city  has  to  be  taken  into  account. 
One  can  feel  the  atmosphere  of  London  in  much 
of  his  future  artistic  work,  its  manifold  throbbing 
life,  its  alternate  light  and  gloom.  Its  future 
expansiveness,  and  its  untroubled  sense  of 
mystery,  were  the  outcome  of  that  early  London 
life. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  now  to  recall  the  pecu- 
liarities of  his  youth  and  adolescence;  his  un- 
couthness,  his  taciturnity,  his  jealousy,  or  his 
ignoble  ambition  to  rival  others,  who  were  with 
him  (as  Browning  puts  it)  "in  the  artist  list  en- 
rolled. "  It  is  not  too  much  for  his  most  ardent 
admirers  (of  whom  I  am  one)  to  admit  that  he 
was  "cabined  and  confined"  within  the  circle  of 
his  own  subjective  genius,  the  limits  of  which  he 
himself  knew  quite  well.  He  could  never  have 
been  the  member  of  an  artistic  brotherhood,  even 
if  he  had  had  access  to  one  in  his  youth.  Cama- 
raderie was  impossible  to  Turner.  If  we  com- 
pare him  as  a  man  with  his  great  successors  in 
England — Rossetti,  Morris,  Burne-Jones  and 
Watts — we  find  that  he  always  worked  in  soli- 
tude, and  tried  to  keep  himself  most  carefully 
alone.  He  would  never  allow  anyone  to  see 
him  painting,  except  on  one  or  two  memorable 
occasions;  and  his  strange  vagaries,  on  "varnish- 

[16] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

ing  day"  in  the  Royal  Academy,  have  been  re- 
corded by  all  his  biographers.  Along  with  his 
supreme  originality  in  water-colour,  his  careless- 
ness as  to  oil-painting  must  be  recorded,  his 
almost  reckless  habit  of  choosing  his  pigments 
without  care;  and  leaving  his  pictures,  when 
finished,  stowed  away  in  wet  and  dusty  rooms, 
seemingly  quite  careless  as  to  their  future  fate. 
I  am  here  as  the  advocate,  and  the  glorifier, 
of  Turner.  I  wish  to  magnify  his  supremacy  in 
Art,  as  Ruskin  did;  but  I  shall  intersperse  my 
eulogy  with  some  qualifying  criticism,  and  with 
a  brief  allusion  to  his  career.  He  inherited  a 
sensuous  nature,  and  he  did  not  bridle  his  pas- 
sions; but  perhaps  he  could  not  have  done  the 
artistic  work  he  did,  if  he  had  accustomed  him- 
self more  constantly  to  the  use  of  the  bearing- 
rein.  Who  knows  ?  I  have  tried  to  follow  his 
career  from  house  to  house  in  London,  just 
as  I  have  followed  Wordsworth  in  his  wander- 
ings; but  it  is  not  so  easy  to  trace  the  erratic 
painter  as  it  is  to  follow  the  great  poet  from  first 
to  last.  The  house  in  Maiden  Lane  in  which 
he  saw  the  light  of  day  was  an  eight-roomed 
dwelling  in  a  street  not  squalid  at  that  time.  It 
is  now  gone,  having  been  taken  down  in  1 82 1 .  The 
boy  artist,  son  of  a  hairdresser,  was  not  specially 
well  educated ;  but  fairly  so  for  the  time,  and  for 
his  parentage.  He  wrote  both  prose  and  poetry 
tolerably  well  in  his  manhood;  but  in  old  age  he 

[17] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

lost  the  power  of  clear  and  accurate  composition. 
This  was  probably  due  to  the  kind  of  life  he  led, 
quite  as  much  as  to  anything  else.  I  need  not 
refer  to  his  early  sketch  of  the  Church  at  Mar- 
gate, or  to  his  colouring  of  engravings  before  he 
was  eleven  years  or  age.  At  fifteen  he  went  to 
the  Royal  Academy  Schools,  and  also  began  to 
work  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  house  as  a  privi- 
leged copyist.  In  1793,  when  18  years  of  age, 
he  left  the  Academy  Schools,  and  his  independ- 
ence began.  In  the  previous  year,  however,  he 
commenced  his  "tours"  as  a  sketcher.  And 
now  we  find  him  a  youth  of  keenest  observational 
power,  and  gigantic  memory,  of  rare  imaginative 
vision,  sensitive  and  sensuous,  restless,  irritable, 
proud,  defiant,  diffuse  in  his  tastes,  a  knight- 
errant  in  art,  very  ambitious,  and  curiously  reti- 
cent because  of  his  knowledge  that  there  was  a 
strain  of  insanity  in  his  family.  He  had  to  create 
a  career  for  himself,  and  he  did  it. 

Before  him  landscape  art  hardly  existed  in 
England.  There  were  topographical  sketchers 
or  Tenderers,  but  no  artists,  except  Girtin  and 
Wilson.  In  this  direction  Turner  struck  out  a 
line  of  his  own;  and  his  numerous  " tours"  in 
Great  Britain  and  France  were  all  undertaken 
with  that  end  in  view,  to  localize  what  he  saw  in 
plastic  art,  to  memorialize  the  Landscape,  the 
Cathedrals,  Castles,  Rivers,  Bridges,  Ruins,  etc. 
Occasionally,  however,  his  drawings  were  not 

[18] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

from  Nature,  or  what  he  saw  before  him,  but 
were  idealizations  of  the  work  of  his  predeces- 
sors. In  his  tours  he  was  mostly  alone,  although 
he  sometimes  accompanied  his  young  contem- 
porary, Girtin.  Had  Girtin  lived  (he  died  when 
he  was  28)  he  might  have  rivalled  Turner  in 
water-colour;  he  had  so  noble  an  artistic  out- 
look, and  was  so  completely  devoid  of  jealousy. 
He  was  perhaps  the  most  precocious  of  all  Eng- 
lish artists,  more  realistic  than  Turner,  more  re- 
ceptive, less  ideal ;  but  not  topographic,  although 
minutely  true  to  Nature.  He  never  exaggerated, 
or  invented  as  Turner  did,  glorifying  the  actual 
by  his  idealization. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Turner's  debt  to  others 
was  very  slight,  and,  at  its  utmost,  almost  un- 
conscious. He  owed  a  little  to  Claude  Lorrain; 
but,  amongst  the  greater  landscapists  of  the  past, 
his  debt  to  such  men  as  Salvator  Rosa,  Pousin, 
and  to  Cuyp,  was  almost  nil. 

It  is  easy  to  follow  his  career  from  his  early 
colouring  of  prints  along  with  Girtin,  to  his 
architectural  studies;  and,  when  a  pupil  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  his  being  allowed  to  copy  in 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  studio;  and  his  receiving 
a  commission  to  take  drawings  of  the  places  he 
visited.  From  the  first  he  was  a  great  pedestrian. 
He  had  good  health,  enjoyed  plain  living,  and 
could  work  for  fifteen  hours  a  day  without  fa- 
tigue in  these  early  years. 

[19] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

In  1808  Turner  was  elected  professor  of  Per- 
spective to  the  Royal  Academy,  a  post  for  which 
he  was  singularly  unfitted.  His  knowledge  of 
architectural  perspective  was  almost  a  blank.  He 
held  the  post  for  many  years,  but  did  no  good 
work  in  it.  It  is  pleasanter  to  his  admirers  to 
forget  that  episode,  and  to  turn  to  his  friendship 
for,  and  his  long  residence  with,  Walter  Fawkes, 
of  Farnley  Hall  in  Yorkshire.  That  friendship 
was  a  specially  noteworthy  circumstance  in  his 
career,  and  in  the  development  of  his  art. 
Fawkes  was  one  of  Turner's  best  patrons,  and 
he  has  the  honour  of  having  divined  his  genius 
very  truly.  Turner  got  to  love  Wharfedale,  and 
to  understand  its  charm.  The  same  is  true, 
though  to  a  less  extent,  of  his  friendship  with 
Lord  Egremont  at  Petworth;  and  testimony  is 
not  lacking  that  he  was  at  this  time  a  light- 
hearted,  merry  creature.  One  of  his  friends 
writes  that  "his  laughter  and  fun,  when  an  in- 
mate of  our  cottage,  was  immeasurable,  particu- 
larly with  the  young,"  while  others  speak  of  his 
cheery  companionship  in  travel. 

Turner's  artistic  departure  from  the  real  or 
actual  world  was  due  to  his  effort  to  portray  a 
finer  kind  of  Beauty  than  the  actual  world  dis- 
closed. From  his  boyhood  he  never  wished  to 
copy  Nature,  to  reproduce  it  literally;  but  to 
glorify  it  by  the  creation  of  a  new  type  or  style 
of  Beauty,  which  he  saw  ever  floating  before  his 

[20] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

inward  eye,  of  which  the  actual  world  only  gives 
us  hints,  or  broken  fragments.  The  creation  of 
a  new  type  of  Beauty  thus  became  the  end,  or 
aim,  of  his  art;  not  an  arbitary  selection  of  frag- 
ments, and  their  combination  in  a  new  artificial 
synthesis;  but  the  production  of  a  fresh  unity, 
compacted  by  that  which  every  joint  of  the  new 
fabric  supplied.  He  began  by  assimilating  the 
work  of  others,  by  ambitious  acquisitiveness. 
But,  in  water-colour,  he  was  an  original  explorer. 
He  was  not  the  first  to  work  in  it,  but  he  designed 
new  methods  of  work,  and  re-handled  the  old 
ones;  and  he  has  had  no  rival,  or  equal,  in  this. 

It  was  more  than  unfortunate  that  so  great  a 
painter  was  often  stirred  up  to  jealousy,  and  led 
into  efforts  to  eclipse  other  artists;  not  exactly 
to  dethrone  them  (he  could  not  do  that),  but  to 
shew  to  his  contemporaries  that  he  could  excel 
them.  Like  Abelard,  the  mediaeval  sophist,  he 
could  not  rejoice  in  a  rival's  success;  and  he 
seemed  to  find  a  stimulus  to  his  own  work  in  the 
effort  to  surpass  that  of  others.  It  was  a  very 
curious  thing,  the  production  of  his  Liber  Studio- 
rum,  in  rivalry  of  Claude's  Liber  Veritatis;  for 
Claude's  200  drawings  were  mere  reminiscences 
of  his  own  pictures,  jottings  set  down  to  remind 
him  of  what  he  had  formerly  produced;  Turner's 
were  intentional  efforts  to  displace  a  rival. 

But  when  all  is  said  it  remains  a  historic  fact 
of  prime  significance  that  there  never  was  in  the 

[21] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

long  evolution  of  the  world's  Art  so  great  a  land- 
scape-painter as  Turner.  His  was  a  supremely 
original  genius^  almost  like  that  of  Shakes- 
peare; or  if  we  come  down  to  contemporaries 
in  kindred  arts,  like  Beethoven  in  Music,  and 
Wordsworth  in  the  poetry  of  Nature.  In  the 
Liber  Studiorum,  in  the  Rivers  of  France,  in  his 
latest  drawings  of  Venice  and  the  Venetian  sea- 
board, he  is  absolutely  without  a  rival.  But  we 
must  raise  the  farther  question:  "  In  what  did 
his  greatness  specially  and  distinctively  lie  ? ' 
for  vague  eulogy  is  of  no  use  to  serious  students 
of  Art. 

Well;  in  all  the  great  landscapes  of  Turner 
you  may  have  observed  that  humanity  is  intro- 
duced, just  as  Wordsworth  introduced  man  into 
his  profoundest  poetry  of  Nature.  Almost  never 
in  his  oils  or  water-colours,  or  in  the  Liber,  did 
Turner  attempt  to  draw  Nature  apart  from  man. 
I  do  not  now  mean  that  he  threw  the  spirit  of 
humanity  into  his  nature-pictures,  but  that  he 
brought  living  humanity,  as  Corot  did,  into  his 
pictures.  Perhaps  in  the  very  noblest  landscape- 
art  man  is  excluded;  that  is  to  say,  he  is  not 
explicitly  or  realistically  brought  in;  because  the 
end  aimed  at  is  the  disclosure  of  some  aspect  of 
the  outer  Universe  surrounding  and  embracing 
him,  which  is — so  to  say — its  secret,  its  inner  soul, 
its  meaning  made  apparent  by  an  apocalypse;  so 
that  all  its  phases  thus  revealed  are  allegories 

[22] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

typical  of  man,  as  in  the  peace  of  evening,  or  the 
the  fury  of  the  storm. 

But  there  is  more  than  this.  A  landscape  of 
the  highest  class  must  have  unity  in  it,  must  be 
a  harmonious  whole,  not  a  number  of  bits  of 
scenery  joined  together  in  a  random  fashion; 
and  if  humanity  is  brought  into  landscape  paint- 
ing (just  as  landscape  forms  the  best  background 
to  figure-painting),  it  must  be  such  humanity  as 
befits  the  place,  the  time,  and  the  scene.  It  must 
be  congruous  to  them,  and  must  never  obtrude. 
If  figures  occupy  too  large  a  space  on  the  canvas, 
if  they  catch  the  eye  of  the  spectator,  and  detain 
it  from  the  landscape,  they  are  out  of  place,  and 
interfere  with  what  the  latter  has  to  tell  us,  or 
reveal.  But  observe,  it  is  not  meant  by  this  that 
the  great  landscape-artist  is  thinking  of  artistic 
unities  in  the  old  conventional  sense,  and  that  he 
therefore  takes  liberties  with  Nature,  bringing 
into  his  reproductions  of  it  conventions  which  are 
really  fictions;  for  he  omits  much,  as  well  as  in- 
troduces much.  It  is  in  what  he  omits  that  we 
discover  his  mastery ;  and  the  landscape-harmony 
which  Turner  gave  us  was  a  blending  of  the  scat- 
tered glories  of  light,  the  atmosphere  of  earth  and 
sky,  in  a  fresh  unity. 

You  may  note  in  this  connection  the  mastery 
of  the  French  artist,  Millet— the  underlying 
humanity  of  his  landscapes,  in  the  Gleaners,  the 
Angelus,  the  Shepherdess,  in  the  Girl  watching  the 

[23] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

flight  of  the  geese  and  listening  to  their  cackle 
overhead;  and  later  on,  I  shall  compare  the  two. 
But  let  me  now  quote  to  you  the  words  of  a  great 
modern  English  landscape  artist,  Mr.  Alfred 
Hunt,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  of  the  success- 
ors of  Turner,  who,  writing  of  his  master's  work 
in  The  Nineteenth  Century  (February,  1891),  said, 
"Turner's  cows  are  useful  or  beautiful  chiefly  as 
recipients  of  sunshine,  or  types  of  repose.  Their 
anatomy  is  of  the  wildest.  They  are  imperfect 
parts  of  a  perfect  whole.  No  landscape,"  Mr. 
Hunt  goes  on  to  say  (and  I  may  tell  you  that  my 
old  friend  was  equally  great  as  a  writer  and  an 
artist), "no  landscape,  however  simple  in  subject, 
quiet  in  tone,  and  unrestful  in  effect,  admits  (so 
to  speak)  of  all-round  realization;  but  a  poetical 
landscape-painter  is  bound  to  deal  with  every 
truth  which  suits  his  imaginative  purpose,  and  the 
moment  that  light  and  colour,  and  that  quality  of 
perfect  relation  between  them  which  we  call 
tone,  have  become  essential  to  that  purpose — then 
the  interdependence  of  every  part,  in  relation  to 
the  whole,  and  the  most  delicate  pouring  out  of  the 
most  subtle  means  toward  that  effect,  become  vital 
to  him.  The  power  of  composition  is  the  land- 
scape painter's  special  gift.  The  true  look  of  a 
bewitching  piece  of  sunlit-distance  cannot  be 
given  at  all,  unless  the  instinct  of  the  artist  has 
worked  into  his  scheme  of  colour,  in  some  other 
part  of  his  picture,  the  very  touch  of  colour  (with 

[24] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

its  own  relative  truth)  which  can  make  that  dis- 
tance look  both  intense  and  delicate  with  ethereal 
light.  Colours,  textures,  masses,  shadow,  spec- 
tacles of  light  are  the  notes  of  his  music;  the 
harmonic  faculty  becomes  supreme.  The  land- 
scapists  of  the  last  generation  from  Turner  down- 
wards took  this  view  of  their  art,  and  studied 
Nature  in  accordance  with  it.  They  liked  fine 
bursts  of  atmospheric  effect,  and  good  views  with 
associations  of  romantic  intent,  in  which  to  exer- 
cise their  powers  of  picturesque  arrangement 
and  *  inventive  design.  But  as  '  nothing  save 
genius '  could  do  this,  it  is  now  a  question  whether 
that  mode  of  regarding  Nature  is  not  in  danger 
of  passing  away  from  us  altogether." 

In  that  same  admirable  article,  Mr.  Hunt  points 
out  that  "with  photography  and  realism'*  we  are 
now  "farther  removed  from  the  ideal  of  Turner 
than  he  was  from  Claude;"  and  he  adds,  in  an 
excellent  sentence — which  is  a  key  to  the  whole 
work  of  the  Pre-Raphaelites  in  landscape  Art — 
that  "the  aspirant  of  today  will  find,  however 
gratefully  and  reverently  he  studies  the  ways  and 
works  of  famous  men  who  loved  nature  before 
him,  that  his  love  is  different  from  theirs,  and  must 
be  told  in  its  own  way." 

He  then  goes  on  to  trace  a  parallel  between  the 
work  of  the  imaginative  painter  and  the  poet; 
and  he  asks  a  question  which  can  best  be  put  in 
his  own  expressive  words: 

[25] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

"In  our  art  of  poetical  landscape-painting,  so 
far  as  the  stir  and  passion  of  nature  are  concerned, 
is  there  any  set  group  or  kind  of  natural  aspect — 
from  the  waving  reeds  of  the  stream  to  the 
splendours  of  storm  and  sunset — in  which  any 
young  artist  would  not  feel  that  we  are  far  indeed 
from  having  yet  used  the  full  resources  of  Nature's 
representable  truths  to  set  forth  her  inimitable 
beauty  ? "  He  then  compares  the  work  of 
David  Cox,  and  Constable,  with  that  of  Turner; 
the  "rough  and  ready  likeness  of  Nature"  which 
the  former  "set  themselves  to  win,"  with  that 
"refined  expression  of  all  subordinate  parts  in 
fit  measure  of  subordination,  which  the  latter 
sought  for,  and  attained." 

I  have  purposely  lingered  over  this  article, 
which  I  fear  very  few  of  my  audience  may  have 
seen;  but  I  now  pass  from  these  wise  words  of 
my  friend  to  tell  you  what  I  have  come  to  think 
of  Turner,  approaching  him  from  the  view-point 
of  a  philosophical  critic  or  appraiser.  I  may 
perhaps  mention  that  it  was  when  I  held  the 
Chair  of  Philosophy  in  St.  Andrews  that  I  began 
my  detailed  study  of  him.  It  would  be  ex- 
tremely foolish  for  anyone  to  say  that  Turner 
was  the  greatest  of  all  painters;  but  I  maintain 
and  proclaim  (in  season  and  out  of  season)  that 
he  was  the  greatest  landscape  painter  that  ever 
lived.  It  has  been  the  fashion  of  some  to  speak 
of  the  chief  workers  in  any  special  realm  of 

[26] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

achievement  as  the  Shakespeares  of  that  realm. 
If  that  be  a  legitimate  way  of  expressing  admira- 
tion due  to  insight,  it  may  be  justly  said  that 
Turner  was  the  Shakespeare  of  Landscape  Art, 
just  as  Beethoven  was  the  Shakespeare  of  Music. 
And  why?  For  this  reason:  No  other  artist 
ever  entered  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  the 
Temple  of  Nature  in  the  same  way,  and  brought 
out  her  secrets  with  him  afterwards;  giving  us 
both  form  and  colour  in  all  their  variety  and 
unity,  their  mystery  and  prodigality,  their 
spaciousness,  their  vividness,  their  transpar- 
ency. He  took  up,  and  all  unconsciously 
included  within  the  circle  of  his  genius,  the 
scattered  excellences  of  many  predecessors; 
and  he  has  given  us  such  an  apocalypse 
of  the  Beautiful  that  of  him  alone  is  the 
expression  true  that  as  a  painter  he  has  shewn 
us  the  poetry  of  Nature.  This  is  mainly  due  to 
the  fact  that  he  gave  us  the  humanity  of  Nature, 
not  by  bringing  man  into  his  foregrounds  (al- 
though he  does  that  also),  but  by  suggesting  a 
human  element  within  the  material  framework 
of  Nature.  And  what  is  the  result?  It  is  this: 
We  see  a  tenderness,  a  grace,  a  radiance,  in  some 
of  his  landscapes ;  a  conflict,  a  pathos,  a  struggle, 
a  revolt,  even  an  agony,  in  others  of  them.  We 
see  the  solemn  tragedy  of  his  own  life,  enacted 
and  re-enacted  on  the  stage  of  the  theatre  of 
Nature,  on  sea,  and  land,  and  sky;  the  joy,  the 

[27] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

extasy,  the  sadness,  the  "riddle  of  the  painful 
earth. "  The  range  of  his  sympathy  with  Nature's 
moods  has  had  no  parallel,  before  or  since,  but 
they  all  tend  to  triumph,  and  ultimate  victory. 

But  just  as  the  figure-painter  must  have  a 
model  to  sit  to  him,  and  so  far  to  copy,  the  land- 
scape painter  must  have  Nature  before  him  to  re- 
produce. He  cannot  build  up  a  scene  out  of  his 
own  inner  subjectivity,  his  memory,  or  power  of 
invention ;  nor  can  he  trust  to  the  reproductive 
work  of  those  who  have  painted  before  him. 
He  must  go  out  into  the  presence  of  Nature, 
taking  with  him,  as  Wordsworth  said,  "a  heart 
that  watches  and  receives. "  In  "a  wise  passive- 
ness,  "  he  must  wait  to  see  those  fugitive  splen- 
dours, which  the  ordinary  eye  never  sees,  and 
which  one  gifted  with  "the  inward  eye"  sees 
only  now  and  then.  He  cannot  collect,  or  store 
up,  his  impressions  of  Nature  as  in  a  cabinet,  or 
register  them  in  a  catalogue.  In  fact,  he  is  not, 
and  can  never  be,  "a  collector."  The  fugitive 
splendour,  the  subtle  spirit,  the  rare  apocalypse 
of  Nature — transient,  kaleidoscopic,  evanescent 
— that  is  what  he  rejoices  in.  But  alas!  he  can 
only  record  one  passing  mood,  one  transient 
glimpse,  and  leave  it  to  suggest  a  thousand  more. 
And  here  it  is  that  the  greatness  of  the  idealist 
is  seen.  He  knows  his  limitations.  He  knows 
that  he  cannot  record  the  evanescence  just  re- 
ferred to;  but  he  tries  to  make  the  little  sterile 

[28] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

bit  of  realism  which  he  displays  on  his  canvas 
suggest  these  immeasurable,  unrecordable,  ideal- 
istic things. 

Here,  again,  it  is  that  Turner  is  supreme.  His 
drawings  "might  be  fairly  described  as  a  series 
of  experiments  to  discover  with  what  system  of 
colour  it  is  possible  to  give  the  greatest  amount 
of  colour-truth,  consistently  with  truth  of  light  and 
shade;  and  will  always  remain  more  or  less  un- 
intelligible to  those  who  do  not  love  landscape 
colour  passionately,  and  see  in  its  strength,  va- 
riety and  subtlety,  the  means  of  representing  dis- 
tinct moods  of  thought  and  feeling. "  (A.  Hunt.) 

I  may  further  signalize  the  chief  point  in 
Mr.  Hunt's  admirable  article.  It  was  this:  that 
in  and  by  Art  alone  we  cannot  "reproduce 
the  union  which  subsists  in  Nature  between 
colour  and  light."  It  would  require  a  lecture 
by  itself  to  discuss  this  question.  I  only  state 
what  Mr.  Hunt  affirmed.  His  enthusiastic 
devotion  to  Turner,  who,  he  says,  "  first  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  full  scope  of  landscape-art," 
was  paramount.  He  felt  and  taught  that  we 
must  all  follow  in  his  foot-steps.  But, 
said  he,  "gifts  which  would  enable  their 
possessor  to  make  a  name  as  a  painter  of 
the  human  form,  and  of  the  spirit  which  dwells 
therein,  must — in  a  landscape  painter — be  com- 
bined with  a  temper  which  will  make  Nature, 
and  the  spirit  which  dwells  in  Nature,  his  deepest 

[29] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

love,  and  the  reproduction  of  her  Beauty  the  very 
labour  of  his  life. " 

Sir  Walter  Armstrong  has  said  that  Turner 
"seldom  painted  the  sky  itself.  The  dome  of 
mysterious  blue,  with  white  cloud  cathedrals 
standing  against  its  infinity,  had  no  charm  for 
him.  His  interest  was  given  to  those  vapours 
and  exhalations  which,  as  it  were,  project  over 
the  earth  against  the  illimitable  depths,  and  sub- 
stitute an  infinite  mysteriousness  for  external 
space.  The  skies  of  the  South  came  to  him  too 
late  to  be  received  cordially  into  his  scheme  of 
Art.  Their  spacious  purity,  their  detachment 
and  indifference  to  humanity,  suggested  condi- 
tions to  which  his  spirit  could  not  sympathetically 
turn. "  *But  I  think  that  there  can  be  little  doubt 
that  Turner's  later  pictures  of  Nature — especially 
his  water-colour  sketches  of  mountain  and  cloud, 
of  landscape  suffused  with  mystery  —  were 
amongst  the  finest  things  he  ever  did.  Let  me 
first  recall,  in  a  sentence,  some  of  his  triumphs 
after  1838,  The  Storm,  The  Slave  Ship,  Bacchus 
and  Ariadne,  The  Burial  of  Wilkie,  The  Carnival 
of  Venice,  The  Sun  of  Venice  (and  other  Vene- 
tian studies),  his  Rain,  Steam  and  Speed.  It  is 
true  that  these  glorious  Venetian  studies  of  his 
latest  period  are  no  longer  to  be  seen  in  that 
atmosphere  of  glory  through  which  they  were 
first  beheld.  What  survives  is  but  the  ghost  of 

*«/.  M.  W.  Turner,  p.  144. 

[30] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the  past.  But  take  his  Rain,  Steam  and  Speedy 
and  I  think  that  in  it  we  have  one  of  his  finest 
later  pictures  because  of  its  symbolic  unity.  As 
Sir  Walter  Armstrong  says,  "neither  Rain,  nor 
Speed,  nor  even  Steam  can  really  be  painted ;  but, 
of  all  the  three  the  painter  can  give  a  symbol, 
which  is  an  organic  whole.  Turner  saw  his 
creation  as  a  pattern  in  depth,  as  well  as  in  width 
and  height,  as  a  pattern  in  mystery  as  well  as  in 
assertion,  in  movement  as  well  as  in  repose. 
Through  all  these  veils  and  quietudes  he  sends 
force  rushing  at  us  concrete  but  indefinite.  In 
colour  we  have  almost  the  masterpiece  of  Turner: 
a  marvellous  iridescence,  an  opalescent  multi- 
tude of  vaporous  atoms,  floating  in  the  sun,  veil- 
ing and  transforming  the  landscape. "  *He  does 
not  "mimic  Nature,  he  supplements  her,  creating 
as  it  were  in  her  wake,  and  giving  proof  as  he 
goes  of  his  own  share  in  the  elemental  forces/'f 
I  should  perhaps  here  ask  you  to  remember 
the  enormous  number  of  Turner's  works.  It 
has  no  parallel  in  the  history  of  Art;  "21,000 
pictures,  drawings,  and  sketches  by  his  hand 
are  extant;  or  one  for  every  day  of  his  working 
life,"  says  Armstrong.  {Compare  that  with 
Reuben's  2,000;  with  Rembrandt's  400,  and  350 
etchings;  with  the  1,000  of  Gainsborough,  and 

*Pp.  158-9. 
fP.  160. 
JP.  188. 

[31] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

the  700  of  Raeburn.  His  life  was,  as  has  well 
been  said,  "a  miracle  of  industry ;"  his  "obser- 
vation never  slept. "  With  him  "  to  observe  was 
to  absorb. " 

All  this  continuous  observation  and  ceaseless 
receptivity,  this  selecting  recording  and  assimi- 
lating, this  sympathetic  symbolic  portraiture, 
carried  on  for  50  years,  has  nothing  like  it  in 
the  long  history  of  Art.  He  knew  that  he  could 
do  better  than  others  around  him ;  and  although 
(it  must  be  owned  to  his  disadvantage),  he  did 
it  to  outstrip  them,  and  to  be  in  the  van,  the 
intensity  of  his  taciturn  love  of  Nature  on  its 
mystic  side,  his  intuitive  seizure  of  its  multi- 
tudinous changeful  glory,  was  one  of  the  causes 
which  kept  him  all  these  years  as  an  industrious 
worker,  glorying  in  the  symbolism  of  Nature, 
while  trying  to  reproduce  its  infinite  variety  and 
mystery. 

And  to  the  old  question — which  will  be  re- 
peated and  repeated  time  out  of  mind — How  are 
Turner's  pictures  so  fascinating  to  the  young 
idealist  in  Art  ?  this  must  be  the  reply.  He  was 
no  photographer,  but  he  understood  and  was 
able  to  reproduce  the  infinite  variety  of  Nature, 
its  changes  and  its  mystery,  the  kaleidoscopic 
rearrangement  of  all  that  it  shews  when  we  first 
see  it.  His  pictures  are  explanations,  not  of  that 
which  his  senses  grasped  at  first-sight,  nor  of  that 
which  his  imagination  seized  at  second-sight,  and 

[32] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

projected  on  the  canvas  created  by  himself,  but 
of  what  lay  deeper  still. 

I  have  just  referred  to  the  total  absence  of 
photographic  copying  (of  course  his  work  was 
antecedent  to  photography)  or  realistic  repro- 
duction in  his  landscapes.  But  this  was  allied  to 
a  very  remarkable  realism — that  is  to  say,  truth- 
ful reproduction  of  Nature  in  her  most  fugitive 
impressions.  Turner  knew  how  to  interpret 
Nature  by  'the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
land/  without  inventing  either  processes  or  pro- 
'ducts;  and  so  his  finest  landscapes  were  trans- 
figurations, in  the  noblest  sense  of  the  term.  He 
was  the  most  receptive  student  of  Nature  that 
ever  traversed  her  river-sides,  her  dales,  her  sea- 
coasts,  and  her  mountain-tracks.  By  so  doing  he 
entered  into  a  heritage  that  was  sent  on  to  him, 
absorbed  it,  and  reproduced  it  for  his  contem- 
poraries and  successors. 

It  is  most  instructive  to  compare  him,  as  I 
have  said,  with  his  contemporaries,  as  well  as  with 
predecessors  and  successors  in  the  hierachy;  with 
Girtin,  with  Daubigny,  with  Constable,  with 
Corot,  with  Millet,  and  Rousseau.  In  all  of 
these,  although  in  very  different  ways,  there  was 
a  reaction  from  Claudism,  from  the  stale  copy- 
ing of  the  models  of  the  past,  by  formal  rule  and 
a  process  prescribed. 

But  I  would  require  to  deliver  a  course  of  lec- 
tures on  the  Liber  Studiorum,  and  the  still  more 

[33] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

glorious  Rivers  of  France,  or  deal  with  his  vig- 
nettes to  Rogers'  poems,  and  many  another 
book,  to  give  you  a  full  idea  of  the  glory  of  this 
one  man  as  a  landscape-artist. 

Some  of  my  audience  may  have  heard  the  re- 
mark made  by  a  foolish  and  audacious  man,  when 
looking  on  one  of  Turner's  greatest  pictures,  "  I 
never  saw  the  like  of  that  in  Nature."  "Don't 
you  wish  you  had  seen  it  ?"  was  the  reply.  It 
leads  me  to  a  farther  point  in  the  appraisal  of  this 
great  chief  of  landscape  art.  He  "  disdained  the 
real,"  as  some  put  it,  in  his  picture  of  Kilchurn 
Castle  in  Scotland,  and  still  more  explicitly  in  his 
drawing  of  The  Chateau  of  Amboise,  in  his 
Rivers  of  France.  His  was  unquestionably  a  dis- 
dainful ignoring  of  literal  accuracy.  He  would 
have  replied  in  spirit — could  he  have  been 
troubled  to  do  so — to  any  questioner,  "What  do 
you  mean  by  accuracy  ?  A  topographer  is  not 
an  artist.  A  great  contemporary  picture  may  be 
a  pictorial  legend.  It  may  have  been  most  care- 
fully 'composed;'  but  have  neither  reality,  nor 
identity,  in  it." 

We  must  admit  that  there  was  some  audacity 
in  all  this,  on  Turner's  part.  His  disdain  for  the 
reproduction  of  the  actual  before  his  outward  eye, 
when  he  saw  a  more  glorious  ideal  floating  before 
his  inward  vision,  was  stupendous ;  and  explains 
much  of  his  seemingly  erratic  work.  His  exag- 
gerations were  notorious,  and  his  occasional  loss 

[34] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

of  the  real  beauty  of  architecture  through  this 
ignoring  of  realistic  accuracy.  But  the  question 
always  recurs,  What  is  "accuracy"  in  Art,  or 
Philosophy,  or  even  in  Theology  ?  If  there  is  no 
imagination  behind  it,  a  great  picture  may  be  a 
pictorial  legend.  Fidelity  to  what  is  before  your 
eyes  does  not  insure  a  reproduction  of  the  real, 
although  there  must  be  no  outrage  on  it,  and  no 
discarding  of  it;  so  that,  as  one  critic  puts  it,  "a 
tower  does  not  look  like  a  stack,  nor  an  obelisk 
like  a  factory  chimney." 

There  is  a  pleasant  story  told  of  Turner's 
travelling  in  Italy  from  Florence  to  Rome,  in 
company  with  U.  R.  J.  Evans  of  Dublin.  They 
worked  together  on  their  way,  in  those  delightful 
days  of  unconventional  if  somewhat  dilatory 
travel,  each  ignorant  of  who  the  other  was.  When 
they  talked  of  their  work  afterwards,  Evans  said: 
"When  we  compared  our  drawings  the  difference 
was  strange.  I  assure  you  there  was  not  a  single 
stroke  of  Turner's  that  I  could  see  like  Nature, 
not  a  line  nor  an  object;  and  yet  my  work  was 
worthless  in  comparison  with  his.  The  whole 
glory  of  the  scene  was  in  his." 

The  periods  in  his  artistic  life  have  been  divided 
out  by  some  as  parallel  to  what  we  see  in  Plato's 
philosophical  one;  those  of  apprenticeship,  of 
travel,  and  of  mastership,  or  lehrjahre,  ivander- 
jahre,  and  meisterjahre.  But  while  there  is  a 
surface  resemblance,  the  parallel  may  be  over- 

[35] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

done ;  and  some,  who  made  use  of  it,  afterwards 
gave  it  up,  Ruskin  for  example.  It  may  be  best 
to  abandon  the  chronological  arrangement,  al- 
though Ruskin  fell  back  on  decades;  and  also 
the  arrangement  of  his  work  in  water-colour  (as 
Sir  Walter  Armstrong  does)  according  to  their 
character,  ingenious  though  it  is,  the  first  class 
containing  his  "drawings  which  ran  parallel  to 
his  work  in  oil;"  the  second  "his  drawings  for  the 
line-engraver;"  the  third  his  "  drawings  in  body- 
colour  on  tinted  paper;"  the  fourth  his  "colour- 
sketches  and  dreams  of  beauty  on  white  paper, 
built  up  with  a  subtlety  and  dexterity  in  the  use 
of  transparent  colour,  which  no  other  painter  has 
approached." 

It  is  as  a  Nature-painter,  pure  and  simple,  that  I 
have  chiefly  studied  him;  in  which,  however,  he 
always  blended  incident,  the  historic  sense,  and 
humanity,  with  and  in  Nature.  Take,  for  ex- 
ample, his  Hannibal  crossing  the  Alps.  A  storm 
of  snow  and  wind  meets  the  great  Carthaginian 
general  with  his  army,  wending  their  way  wearily 
along  and  underneath.  Note  the  complete  title 
which  he  selected  for  his  picture.  It  was  "  Snow- 
storm. Hannibal  crossing  the  Alps,"  Nature 
first,  humanity  second;  and  both  combined  in 
superlative  style.  It  is  a  wonderful  bit  of  imag- 
inative daring,  this  welding  of  humanity  with 
Nature.  Similarly  in  his  glorious  Bay  of  Baiae, 
his  Ulysses  deriding  Polyphmus,  the  Sun  of 

[36] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Venice,  the  Golden  Bough,  the  Approach  to 
Venice,  and  The  Fighting  Temeraire.  Alas!  that 
the  superlative  Bay  of  Baiae,  with  its  old  wonder- 
charm,  is  doomed.  Its  delicate  opalescent  colour 
gone.  The  Ulysses  is  even  worse,  that  mail- 
suit  which  was  the  eye  of  the  picture  being 
scarce  distinguishable  now.  How  terribly  reck- 
less he  was  in  his  choice,  and  use,  of  pigments! 
and  how  the  world  now  suffers  from  his  reckless- 
ness. And  yet  we  are  receiving  from  time  to 
time  at  our  National  Gallery  in  London,  at  the 
Tate  Gallery,  and  elsewhere,  many  priceless 
relics  of  his  genius. 

Perhaps  his  most  interesting  landscape  pic- 
ture in  the  first  of  these  galleries  is  the  "  Fighting 
Temeraire"  being  tugged  into  its  last  berth;  its 
universal  popularity  being  due  to  its  still  glorious 
colour,  to  its  subject,  its  associations  with  Tra- 
falgar and  the  Victory,  as  it  was  next  to  the  flag 
ship  in  the  fighting  line.  But  it  is  most  of  all  the 
combination  of  historic  incident  and  patriotic 
sentiment,  with  the  beauty  of  water  and  sky,  and 
the  tragedy  of  the  great  ship  being  towed  away 
to  be  broken  up,  and  to  die  as  the  daylight  is  seen 
dying  in  the  west. 

I  am  sure  I  am  correct  in  saying  that  Tur- 
ner brought  Humanity  into  his  pictures  of  Na- 
ture, just  as  Wordsworth  brought  it  into  his  poems 
on  Nature.  The  parallel  was  singularly  close; 
but  I  cannot  work  it  out  here  and  now.  His 

[37] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

debt  to  his  predecessors  was  great,  but  he  sur- 
passed them  all  by  conquests  of  those  territories 
in  which  they  had  worked  in  a  fragmentary  man- 
ner before  him.  And  the  result  was  (as  Zeller  says 
of  Plato's  relation  to  his  predecessors)  that  *  'he 
was  neither  an  envious  imitator,  nor  an  irresolute 
eclectic." 

His  work  on  the  Liber  Studiorum  was  a  sort  of 
intermediate  effort  between  his  early  water- 
colour  and  his  later  work  in  oil,  before  he  re- 
turned to  his  yet  grander  water-colour;  and 
it  coincided  with  his  wanderjahre,  the  glorious 
series  of  The  Rivers  of  France  being  by  far 
the  finest  of  his  sketches  in  foreign  lands.  I  have 
already  said  that  it  is  interesting  to  trace  the 
evolution  of  his  genius  through  all  its  stages  to  the 
end,  and  it  is  noteworthy  that  it  did  not  shew  it- 
self full-robed  till  he  threw  aside  the  idea  of  criti- 
cizing his  contemporaries  and  predecessors ;  when 
"at  the  last,"  as  Sir  Walter  Armstrong  puts  it, 
"he  had  thrown  rivalry,  and  reminiscence,  and 
fear  of  judgment  overboard,"  "looking  neither 
to  the  right,  the  left,  nor  behind  him,  but  ahead." 

While  the  greatest  of  water-colourists,  he  at 
first  tried  to  make  that  medium  a  rival  to  oil,  and 
he  succeeded  in  doing  so;  but  he  came  to  see  that 
both  were  equally  good  for  the  presentation  and 
perpetuation  of  the  Beautiful.  They  were,  in 
their  provinces,  distinct  each  from  each;  but  they 
were  harmonious  in  the  end  they  aimed  at  and 
achieved.  [38] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

It  is  usually  a  great  presumption  for  any  worker 
in  realms  outside  that  of  plastic  Art  to  venture 
on  the  criticism  of  a  master  to  whom  the  world 
is  so  much  beholden;  but  perhaps  I  may  venture 
to  say  just  this,  that  he  at  times  threw  into  his 
work  so  much  detail,  and  elaborated  so  much, 
that  he  almost  over-magnified  its  mysteriousness 
while  he  never  over-praised  its  glory. 

Many  a  writer  has  referred  to  his  power  of  selec- 
tion from  Nature,  and  his  frequent  compression 
of  the  scenes  he  has  reproduced.  His  artistic  mem- 
ory was  marvellous,  both  as  to  form  and  colour, 
and  it  would  sometimes  seem  that  he  could  sum- 
mon up  from  "the  vasty  deep"  as  many  things 
as  Shakespeare's  gigantic  memory  could,  and 
utilize  them  nearly  as  well ;  but — and  here  we  see 
the  hand  of  the  master — he  made  wise  choice 
from  that  storehouse  of  memory ;  and,  as  in  the 
sister  art  of  literary  composition,  it  was  by  what 
he  left  out,  and  in  that  to  which  he  gave  no  ex- 
pression, that  we  see  the  hand  of  the  master. 

It  is  indeed  a  sad  reflection  that  the  colour  in 
some  of  the  finest  of  Turner's  pictures  has  now 
faded  beyond  recovery.  Alas!  their  owners — 
chance  proprietors — have  not  all  acted  as  Mr. 
Ruskin  and  Mr.  Henry  Vaughan  did — who  cov- 
ered them  with  veils,  or  kept  them  in  closed  cabi- 
nets for  most  of  the  year.  When  the  year  2000 
A.  D.  is  reached  it  is  very  likely  that  most  if  not 
all  of  the  loveliest  will  have  disappeared.  Those 

[39] 


SOME  19th  CENTURY  ARTISTS 

works  of  ethereal  loveliness,  which  delight  us  now, 
will  have  vanished  into  the  dim  and  formless 
void.  Let  us  hope  that  one  or  other  of  two  things 
— and  I  cannot  say  which  is  best — will  occur. 
Either  (i)  that  by  some  new  scientific  process 
our  adepts  at  preservation  will  have  discovered 
one  better  than  photography,  by  means  of  which 
these  treasures  of  the  past  may  be  transmitted  to 
a  future  age;  or  (2)  that,  out  of  the  turmoil 
and  distorted  outlook  of  the  present  hour,  a  new 
race  of  artists  will  arise — as  I  am  certain  that 
poets  will — to  rival  the  glories  of  our  magnifi cen  t 
Turnerian  era.  If  they  do  so,  I  am  sure  it  will 
be  by  first  entering  into  their  heritage  as  the 
assimilators  of  the  spirit  of  this  rare  "  Prophet 
of  the  Beautiful." 


[40] 


PLATE   I 


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LECTURE  SECOND. 

LANDSCAPE  ART  IN  ENGLAND  AND 
FRANCE. 


OWARDS  the  close  of  my  first 
lecture,  I  reached  an  inter- 
esting point  in  reference  to  the 
landscape-art  of  England  and 
of  the  world,  subsequent  to  that 
of  Turner.  The  century  which 
we  all  recently  left,  and  that  on 
which  we  have  entered,  have  been  able  to  teach  us 
more  of  the  material  world  than  any  which  have 
preceded  them.  The  processes  of  Nature  have 
been  studied,  and  its  laws  discovered,  as  they 
never  were  before.  Even  the  nooks  and  corners  of 
the  earth  have  been  ransacked  by  the  insatiable 
pioneers  of  discovery.  Old  historic  places,  the 
shrines  of  earlier  civilization — in  Egypt,  India 
and  the  east — have  been  explored  with  minutest 
care;  but  our  Art  has  not  followed  at  the  same 
pace  (I  mean  Art  in  combination  with  Science, 
and  as  applied  by  its  hand-maiden,  Archeology) 

[41] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

into  these  regions.  Many  of  our  artists  since 
the  days  of  Turner  have  been  content  to  keep 
to  traditional  grooves,  and  to  work  along  con- 
ventional lines;  much  more  than  our  scientific 
men,  our  philosophers,  our  historians,  and  our 
historical  geographers.  They  have  continued  to 
copy  from  models;  and,  in  consequence,  have 
exhibited  results  which  only  satisfied  an  earlier 
age.  I  bring  no  indictment  against  them,  because 
they  admit  the  fact  I  now  assert.  Our  land- 
scape artists  for  many  generations  copied  the 
trees  and  meadows,  the  rocks  and  the  river- 
scenes,  that  delighted  their  predecessors.  Tur- 
ner, as  we  saw,  broke  away  from  all  that  slav- 
ery; but  he  had  no  successors,  and  he  did  not 
found  or  form  a  school. 

I  think,  however,  that  the  reaction  of  modern 
Science  upon  Art  has  been  sure,  though  slow ;  and 
it  has  had  numerous  indirect  results.  As  was  in- 
evitable, it  brought  Art  back  again  to  Nature; 
and  made  the  general  artistic  consciousness  of 
people  more  and  more  dissatisfied  with  blurred 
outlines,  nondescript  inventions,  the  clever  bun- 
dling together  of  a  mass  of  impressions  as  to 
Nature,  instead  of  a  faithful  portrayal  of  objec- 
tivity. This  has  led  the  general  mind  of  the  race 
to  look  to  Nature  afresh;  and  to  what  end  ?  Not 
to  tarry  there,  inspecting  external  beauty,  how- 
ever clearly  revealed,  but  to  pass  within  and  be- 
yond externality;  finding  a  mystic  meaning  with- 

[42] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

in  it,  due  to  its  perpetual  changes,  and  its  apoca- 
lypse of  what  it  never  tarries  to  unfold. 

The  result  is  this.  While  the  inheritor  of  old 
traditions,  who  reverences  what  is  venerable  and 
remote,  is  always  more  or  less  enslaved  by  them— 
his  loyalty  having  its  euthanasia  in  a  sort  of  will- 
ing thraldom — slowly,  side  by  side  with  this,  a 
new  spirit  is  at  work.  Old  traditions  are  bro- 
ken up  by  a  fresh  perception  of  the  meaning  of 
Nature,  and  such  a  new  love  of  its  mystery  and 
glory  as  we  trace  to  a  certain  extent  in  the  art  of 
Turner. 

In  Turner's  work  there  was  no  fidelity  to  Na- 
ture, in  the  ordinary  sense  of  that  phrase;  and 
yet,  there  were  no  abrupt  departures  from  Na- 
ture. It  may  even  be  said  that  he  was  true  to 
the  higher  Nature,  by  being  false  to  the  lower; 
because  he  had"  the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine" 
of  seeing  the  higher  at  one  and  the  same  time 
within  the  lower,  and  yet  above  and  beyond  it. 
Be  it  granted  to  all  commonplace  critics  that 
he  was  inaccurate  as  a  delineator  of  things  which 
the  common  eye  perceives ;  nay,  that  he  at  times 
disregarded  the  real,  simply  because  he  saw  and 
felt  so  much  of  the  ideal  within  it.  Topograph- 
ical accuracy  had  no  charm  for  him.  He  was 
never  a  maker  of  maps.  More  important  still, 
he  put  colour  into  most  of  the  drawings  which 
he  never  saw;  but  only  selected  to  enhance  the 
beauty,  or  glory,  or  suggestiveness  of  Nature. 

[43] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

Be  it  admitted  that  Turner  never  painted  trees 
with  any  dexterity,  that  he  lacked  what  Hamer- 
ton  called  "the  sylvan  sense,  the  delight  in  forest 
scenery."  Hence,  as  we  shall  see,  the  French 
idealists — Millet,  Corot,  Rousseau,  etc. — sur- 
passed him  in  this.  Mr.  Hamerton  adds: 
"With  a  knowledge  of  landscape,  vaster  than 
any  mortal  ever  possessed  before  him,  his 
whole  existence  was  a  succession  of  dreams. 
*  *  *  *  Ht  would  sit  down  and  sketch  an- 
other dream,  in  the  very  presence  of  the  reality 
itself." 

Turner  "hid  himself,"  in  part  intentionally; 
in  part  because  he  felt  that  "he  could  not  in- 
terpret himself  except  by  means  of  the  brush/'* 
As  a  rule  "  he  would  never  let  anyone  see  him 
draw."  There  were  strange  opposites  in  him, 
and  these  are  only  explainable  by  a  simultaneous 
life  in  two  worlds,  with  an  almost  dual-conscious- 
ness of  a  most  consistent  life  in  both  of  them.  A 
royal  imagination,  a  supreme  insight,  a  radiancy 
of  touch,  an  ethereal  poetic  sense  almost  like 
that  of  Shakespeare,  were  allied  to  personal  habits 
not  always  refined.  He  could  live  in  squalor, 
and  was  not  always  noble  in  his  personal  trans- 
actions. One  of  his  admirers  even  ventures  to 
liken  him  to  a  hedgehog.  But  England,  and  the 
world,  owe  to  him,  and  must  forever  owe  innumer- 
able debts.  As  Mr.  Monkhouse  says,  he  be- 

*Cosmo  Monkhouse. 

[44] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

came  "the  converter  of  topography  into  Art;" 
and,  in  a  much  better  sentence,  he  adds,  that 
he  "  treated  buildings  as  valuable  chiefly  for  the 
breaking  of  sunbeams."  His  marvellous  gift  of 
memory  seems  to  have  repelled  some  people, 
but  what  was  its  result  ?  He  was  able  to  record, 
to  renew  and  perpetuate,  the  multitudinous  im- 
pressions of  Nature,  which  came  to  him  in  mag- 
ical troops,  and  then  vanished  into  these  mystic 
chambers  of  his  being;  there  to  lie  latent,  se- 
curely locked  up,  without  ever  blending  or  con- 
fusing one  another;  and  thence  to  be  recalled, 
and  reproduced  with  lordliest  power,  when  they 
were  needed. 

It  is  curious  that  the  majority  of  peasants,  in 
the  most  beautiful  countries  of  the  world,  are 
blind  to  the  loveliness  and  glories  around  them ; 
but  it  is  not  curious  that  peasant-people  awaken 
to  the  interest  of  portrait-painting,  before  they 
are  able  to  understand  landscape-art.  Probably 
the  chief  reason  has  been  a  selfish  one.  Some 
have  thought  that  it  would  be  useful  to  send  on 
to  posterity  the  vera  effigies  of  important,  or  dis- 
tinguished, men  and  women,  chiefly  because  they 
were  dead  and  gone,  and  could  never  be  seen 
again;  but  for  the  transmission  of  landscape-art, 
of  scenery  that  was  always  present,  or  would  re- 
turn, what  need  for  that  ?  These  objects  do  not 
die  as  human  things  do» 

I  wish  I  could  bring  out  satisfactorily  the 
[45] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

relations  in  which  Turner  stood  to  his  pred- 
ecessor Girtin,  only  two  years  his  senior,  and 
whom  he  surpassed  immeasurably.  They  were 
not  friends,  and  yet  the  younger  admired  the 
elder's  painting;  and,  of  one  of  his  pictures  he 
said,  "I  never  could  have  made  anything  like  it." 
But  he  was  both  selfish  and  secretive;  and  with 
all  his  unparalleled  greatness  was  inordinately 
ambitious,  from  first  to  last,  to  eclipse  every  rival. 
I  have  already  likened  him  to  Abelard,  the  me- 
dieval sophist — most  skilful  of  swordsmen,  most 
selfish  of  disputants — who  wished  to  humble 
his  adversary,  that  he  might  reign  alone. 

These  were  his  faults  and  failings,  over  which 
we  need  not  tarry  now.  We  think  rather  of  his 
artistic  greatness  and  the  debt  we  owe  to  him.  No 
artist  ever  had  such  a  run  of  fortune  in  England 
leading  to  profit  and  independence.  How  dif- 
ferent was  the  pioneer  of  the  French  school  of 
ideal-realists,  who  had  so  many  affinities  with 
him.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  began  to  exhibit 
at  the  Royal  Academy  and  he  was  elected  an 
associate  when  he  was  twenty-seven.  He  soon 
became  the  talk  of  the  society-folk,  and  so  rich 
that  he  said  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his 
money.  He  was  vilified  by  the  envious;  but  long 
afterwards  he  had  perhaps  the  greatest  hero- 
worship  that  any  man  has  ever  had,  in  the  sus- 
tained eulogy  of  Ruskin. 

Now  let  us  grant  at  once  that  Turner's  tech- 
[46] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

nique  was  often  faulty,  and  his  power  of  repro- 
ducing reality  imperfect.  He  soon  gave  up  all 
attempt  to  do  so.  But  why  ?  Because  he  came  to 
see  that  Art  was  to  him  the  vehicle  for  express- 
ing what  his  inward  eye  beheld.  He  even  came 
to  regard  the  scrupulously  exact  Nature  painter's 
as  dullards;  and  he  lived  to  express,  and  to  re- 
produce, what  he  and  he  alone  saw. 

In  his  Life  of  Turner  Mr.  Hamerton  says  "he 
used  any  colour  that  the  experimentalizing  in- 
genuity of  modern  chemistry  could  invent  for  the 
temptation  of  an  artist."1  But,  as  Mr.  Ham- 
erton also  remarks,  "his  colour,  in  his  most 
delicate  work,  hardly  seems  to  be  laid  on  the 
paper  by  any  means  known  to  us,  but  suggests 
the  idea  of  a  vapourized  deposit."2  Mr.  Hamer- 
ton's  criticism  and  appreciation  are  so  admirable 
that  I  continue  to  quote  from  him:  "He  was 
always  trying  to  paint  the  impossible."3  But  he 
also  points  out  that  Turner  "excelled  the  artists 
of  all  time  in  his  appreciation  of  mystery  in  Na- 
ture, and  his  superlatively  excellent  renderings  of 
it;"  while  he  adds  that  his  eulogist,  Ruskin,  was 
"the  first  writer  on  Art  who  explained  the  value 
of  mystery  in  painting."4  Again,  he  tells  the 
story  of  an  American  purchaser  of  one  of  his  pic- 
tures. Turner  asked  his  friend  Leslie  "what  the 

1  Page  542. 
» Page  344. 
» Page  345. 
« Page  346. 

[47] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

purchaser  thought  of  it."  The  reply  was,  "  He 
thinks  it  indistinct,"  to  which  Turner  replied  in  a 
sort  of  good-humoured  censure,  "  You  should  tell 
him  that  indistinctness  is  my  fault  and  my  merit." 
Hamerton  says  that  "the  greatest  technical  merit 
in  Turner's  colouring  is  his  wonderfully  brilliant 
performances  in  the  upper  notes;"  and  he  adds 
that  he  "carried  up  more  colour  into  the  regions 
of  light  than  any  painter."1  All  this  was  due  to 
his  ideality.  Claude  was  the  pioneer  of  idealism 
in  Art,  but  Turner  outstripped  him  altogether. 
Constable  was  far  more  realistic,  and  the  Pre- 
Raphaelities — to  whom  we  shall  soon  come— 
were  still  more  so.  Only  note,  here  and  now,  that 
the  great  tidal  wave  of  idealism  in  Art  rose  to  its 
height  in  Turner. 

I  have  already  said  that  it  is  to  be  feared  the 
day  is  not  a  distant  one  when  most,  if  not  all,  of 
his  great  pictures  will  have  disappeared;  partly 
because  of  the  bad  pigments  he  made  use  of, 
partly  because  of  the  careless  way  in  which  he 
left  so  many  of  them  exposed  to  the  glare  of  the 
sun,  and  also  because  of  the  way  in  which  he 
sometimes  mixed  up  oil  with  water-colour. 
But,  sad  though  it  is,  that  is  the  ultimate  fate 
of  all  plastic  art.  Where  are  now  the  pictures 
of  Zeuxis  and  Apelles  ?  Our  chief  consolation 
is  that  the  art-instinct  of  the  human  race  sur- 
vives, and  is  ineradicable,  a  Krrjpa  «  act 

1  Page  352. 

[48] 


joy  forever;  and  that  new  art  products,  better,  I 
believe,  than  all  those  of  the  past,  are  certain  to 
arise. 

I  may  go  even  a  step  farther,  and  say  that  the 
time  will  come  when  Turner  will  be  known  and 
remembered  mainly,  not  by  his  water-colours  or 
his  oils,  but  by  the  engravings  which  he  gave  to 
the  world  in  the  Liber  Studiorum,  and  from  those 
in  his  Rivers  of  France]  while  he  will  live  longer 
still  in  the  interpretative  pages  of  his  great  ex- 
pounder, John  Ruskin.  Modern  Painters,  and 
other  treasures  of  Art-criticism,  will  live  and 
educate  mankind  for  generations  to  come. 

Enough  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour. 

And  what  would  the  world  now  give  if  there  had 
been  an  art  critic  like  Ruskin  in  Greece  in  the 
days  of  Pericles,  and  in  what  Browning  so  hap- 
pily calls  it,  in  reference  to  the  Italian  workman- 
ship of  a  later  age, 

Art's  spring-birth,  so  dim  and  dewy. 

I  now  pass  from  English  Landscape  Art  to  the 
work  of  two  great  Frenchmen,  Corot  and  Millet. 
(Jean  Baptiste  Camille  Corot,  and  Jean  Fran- 
cois Millet.) 


[49] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

A i  in  Turner's  case,  you  have  now  easy 
access  to  many  books  on  the  life  work 
of  both  men,  so  that  I  need  not  en- 
large on  that. 

I  wish  to  bring  out  their  respective  excellences, 
by  comparing  them  with  others,  and  especially 
with  Turner.  Well;  Corot  never  could  have 
painted  a  stormy  sky  as  Turner  did.  He  did 
not  understand  it.  He  loved  peace,  pursued 
it,  and  portrayed  it.  It  is  one  of  his  great  merits 
as  a  landscape  artist  that  he  knew  the  limit 
of  his  genius,  and  never  tried  to  represent  that 
Nature  he  loved  so  well,  either  in  a  blaze  of 
glory,  or  in  an  agony  of  storm. 

He  knew  his  limitations,  and  was  invariably 
modest  in  never  parading  them,  as  some  rel- 
atively great  men — egoists  at  heart — have  sought 
to  magnify  themselves  by  enlarging  on  their 
own  infirmities.  But  we — who  have  profited 
so  much  by  him,  and  learned  so  much  from 
him — may  perhaps  try  respectfully  to  point  out 
what  these  limitations  were.  We  in  England 
instinctively  compare  him,  as  I  have  said,  with 
our  own  Turner;  and,  in  doing  so,  we  find  that 
Corot  never  opens  up  for  us  a  door  of  entrance 
into  the  mystery  of  Nature.  He  would  himself 
have  disliked  (or  at  least  not  cared  for)  an 
apocalypse  of  Beauty  flashed  out  upon  him  from 
obscure  hiding-places,  casual  glances  from  nooks 
and  crannies.  It  was  the  common  ongoings  of 

[50] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Nature  on  sweet  summer  days,  its  peaceful  re- 
poseful face,  that  he  delighted  in.  Even  when 
in  Rome,  during  that  visit  of  his  young  manhood, 
when  he  painted  the  Coliseum,  and  St.  Peter's 
as  seen  from  the  Pincio,  it  was  the  peaceful  as- 
pects of  the  scenes  that  appealed  to  him.  This 
was  the  outcome  of  temperamental  and  inherited 
tendencies. 

Corot  wrote:  "I  made  my  first  drawing  from 
Nature  under  the  eye  of  the  painter  whose  only 
advice  to  me  was  to  render  with  the  utmost  fidel- 
ity everything  that  I  saw  before  me."  Another 
of  his  teachers,  Victor  Bertin,  taught  him  to  in- 
troduce figures  into  his  drawings,  "without  which 
he  used  to  say  that  a  landscape  was  uninhabit- 
able, "  but  to  do  this  by  following  precedent,  or 
the  old  classical  rules. 

When  he  was  twenty-nine  years  of  age  he  went 
for  three  years  to  Rome.  On  his  arrival  there 
he  became,  as  so  many  become,  acutely  con- 
scious of  his  defects;  and  in  a  most  interesting 
letter  he  wrote,  "I  could  not  draw  at  all.  Two 
men  stopped  to  chat  together.  I  began  to  sketch 
them,  part  at  a  time — the  head,  for  instance. 
They  separated,  and  I  had  nothing  but  some 
bits  of  head  on  my  paper.  Some  children  were 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  a  church.  I  began  again. 
Their  mother  called  them  away,  and  my  book 
would  be  full  of  ends  of  noses,  foreheads  and 
tresses  of  hair.  I  determined  that  I  could  not 

[51] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

come  home  again  another  time  without  a  com- 
plete piece  of  work,  and  I  tried  for  the  first  time 
a  drawing  par  masse,  a  rapid  drawing.  I  set 
myself  to  outline,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  the 
first  group  I  found.  If  it  only  staid  a  short  time 
I  had  at  any  rate  caught  the  character;  if  it  staid 
long  enough,  I  could  get  the  details." 

Returning  to  France,  and  to  its  northern  coast 
scenery,  he  writes  thus,  "With  my  brush  in  my 
hand  I  go  out  nutting  through  the  woods,  in  my 
studio; and  there  also  I  can  hear  the  birds  sing- 
ing, and  the  trees  rustling  in  the  wind ;  and  I  can 
see  the  streams  and  the  rivers  flowing  on,  carry- 
ing thousands  of  mirror  pictures  of  sky  and 
earth;  and  the  sun  rises  and  sets  for  me  in  my 
own  house." 

Corot  had  no  struggle  with  adversity  like  his 
great  contemporary,  Millet.  He  was  never  in 
want,  although  he  was  not  always  appreciated, 
and  the  judges  of  the  Salon  were  sometimes 
hostile  to  him.  But  that  did  not  disturb  him,  be- 
cause he  believed  that  he  had  got  into  close  touch 
with  Nature  in  his  own  way,  and  that  his  hour 
of  recognition  would  come.  He  waited  for  it 
without  any  impatience,  or  clamour,  or  chagrin  at 
the  delay.  Nothing  is  finer  in  the  way  of  ap- 
praisal than  his  own  letters  on  his  art.  He  said 
to  one  who  had  noted  the  wonderful  atmosphere 
of  his  landscapes,  and  the  feathery  grace  of  his 
foliage:  "Yes,  the  birds  must  be  able  to  fly 

[52] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

through  the  branches."  But  listen  to  his  own 
account  of  the  life  of  an  artist  in  his  relationship 
to  Nature.  He  wrote,  "A  landscape  painter  has 
a  delightful  day.  He  gets  up  about  three  A.  M., 
before  sunrise.  He  goes  out,  sits  down  under  a 
tree,  and  waits,  watching.  At  first  there  is  little 
to  be  seen.  *  *  *  Everything  is  sweetly  scented, 
and  trembles  under  the  wakening  breeze  of  the 
dawn.  *  *  *  First  one  ray  of  sunlight  then 
another.  The  flowerets  awake.  The  birds  begin 
to  twitter  their  morning  prayer.  One  sees 
nothing,  yet  all  is  there.  *  *  *  The  sun  arises. 
Everything  sparkles  and  glitters,  all  is  in  full 
light,  still  soft  and  caressing;  and  I  paint!  I 
paint!  The  far  distance  in  its  simple  contour 
and  harmony  fades  into  the  sky,  through  an 
atmosphere  of  mist  and  ether.  The  flowers 
raise  their  heads,  the  birds  flit  to  and  fro.  A 
peasant  riding  a  white  horse  disappears  down 
the  narrow  path.  And  the  artist?  He  paints!" 
*  *  *  As  the  hours  advance  he  writes:  "We  see 
too  much.  There  is  nothing  left  to  the  imagina- 
tion. Let  us  go  to  breakfast  at  the  farm.  Work, 
my  friends!  I  will  rest!  I  will  doze  and  dream 
of  my  morning  scene.  I  will  dream  of  my 
picture;  and,  later  on,  I  will  paint  my  dream." 
"The  sun  has  sunk.  There  remains  but 
a  soft  filmy  touch  of  pale  yellow — the  last  gleam 
from  the  sun  which  has  dropped  into  the  deep 
blue  of  night — melting  from  soft  green  into  a  yet 

[53] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

paler  turquoise  of  an  intangible  delicacy  and  an 
indescribable  liquid  mistiness.  Everything  is 
fast  fading,  yet  we  know  that  everything  is  still 
there.  All  is  vague,  for  Nature  is  falling  asleep. 
*  *  *  The  illusion  is  over.  The  sun  having 
gone  to  rest,  the  inner  sun — the  sun  of  the  soul 
— the  sun  of  art — arises.  Good!  my  picture  is 
finished." 

As  his  dexterous  interpreter*  writes,  "  Here  we 
see  the  artist,  the  poet,  the  lover  of  Nature ;  we 
see  also  the  man  who  never  painted  Nature  in  a 
convulsion.  When  the  sun  blazes  at  full  mid- 
day, when  it  sets  in  an  orgy  of  colour,  Corot  will 
have  none  of  it." 

From  first  to  last,  there  was  no  tragedy  in 
Corot's  life,  no  sturm  und  drang.  He  was  in- 
variably quiet,  happy,  simple,  kindly,  peaceful, 
contented.  All  his  letters  are  serene;  and  he 
was  most  generous  in  his  appreciation  of  others, 
his  brother-artists  whom  he  habitually  placed 
above  himself.  When  ignored  by  the  critics, 
or  the  picture-dealers,  his  habitual  consola- 
tion was  "  I  have  my  Art;  that  remains." 
He  likened  his  contemporary,  Rousseau,  to  "a 
soaring  eagle;"  himself,  to  a  "singing  lark." 
And  we  may  never  forget — posterity  will  never 
forget — his  noble  generosity  to  the  widow  of  his 
friend,  Francois  Millet,  not  long  before  he  died, 

*Miss  Ethel  Birnstingl  or  Miss  Alice  Pollard;  for  the  book  is 
a  joint  one,  published  by  Methuen  &  Coy. 

[54] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

when  he  (Corot)  was  receiving  large  payments 
for  his  pictures.  He  returned  ten  thousand 
francs  to  his  agent,  the  dealer,  and  told  him  to 
pay  one  thousand  every  year  for  ten  years  "to 
the  widow  of  my  friend. " 

He  was  not  a  cultivated  artist.  He  read  little, 
and  took  no  interest  in  Science,  or  History,  or 
Politics.  But  he  went  on  his  own  way,  and  did 
his  own  work.  If  asked  what  was  his  specialty 
as  an  artist — what  differentiated  him  in  a  crowd 
of  illustrious  contemporaries — I  would  say  it 
was  this:  He  never  obtruded  himself,  or  his 
own  subjectivity,  into  any  picture;  nor  did  he 
ever  try  to  photograph  what  was  present  to  his 
eye.  He  seized  a  passing  mood  of  Nature,  a 
transient  disclosure  of  it;  and,  what  is  more 
significant,  when  out  in  the  fields  and  woods,  he 
took  brief — very  brief — notes  from  Nature,  to  be 
afterwards  worked  out  by  him,  and  dealt  with 
in  a  few  touches.  He  did  not  try  to  give  anything 
else;  because  these  touches  revealed  much  more 
than  a  canvas,  daubed  all  over  with  minute 
detail,  could  possibly  do. 

The  changes  of  the  seasons  were  chronicled 
for  us  by  him  in  a  few  rapid  strokes.  The 
boundless  life  of  Nature,  in  her  ever-fluctuating 
moods,  was  depicted  with  an  immediacy  and 
vividness  that  was  arresting  and  joyous;  but 
Corot  did  not  allow  us  to  linger  over-long  in  one 
mood  of  rejoicing,  by  giving  us  too  much  to  see 

[55] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

on  his  canvases.  He  wrote,  "If  you  crowd  in 
too  much,  you  weaken  effect,  or  falsify  every- 
thing in  the  effort  to  be  too  exact.  No  two  hours 
of  the  day  are  just  alike,  and  you  cannot  put 
both  on  one  canvas."  He  depicted  all  the  sea- 
sons, and  all  the  hours;  although  he  loved  best 
the  leafy  summer,  in  its  tremulousness,  its  ethe- 
reality, its  transparency,  its  warmth,  and  its  ful- 
ness of  life.  Over  all  his  pictures  we  feel  that  a 
healthful  breeze  is  blowing.  But  he  recognized 
more  than  any  other  landscape  painter  in  France, 
the  glory  of  the  changefulness  of  Nature,  and 
the  difficulty  into  which  this  brought  the  artist. 
Referring  to  the  movements  of  the  clouds,  he 
writes,  "'Stop!"  said  I,  "trying  to  emulate 
Joshua  with  the  sun!  But  the  clouds  continued 
to  drive,  the  sky  changing  continually  in  form 
and  colour.  I  cried  out  to  them  to  stand,  if  only 
for  a  moment,  that  I  might  not  paint  them 
wrongly;  but  no;  as  though  a  sky  standing  still 
would  be  a  sky  at  all!" 

I  have  said  in  quasi-criticism,  that  in  his  pic- 
tures Jean  Corot  does  not  give  us  the  mystery  in 
Nature,  the  remote,  the  impenetrable,  the  in- 
scrutable, which  is  so  supremely  fascinating  in 
Turner's  work;  but  who,  I  ask,  has  ever  let  us 
feel  the  secret  of  Nature's  peace  so  well — its 
charm,  in  the  gentle  stir  of  leaves  with  their 
twinkling  lights  and  fluttering,  feathery  loveli- 
ness, their  whisperings  of  rest  ?  When  I  look  on 

[56] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

one  of  Corot's  finest  landscapes  and  see  the  pale 
mist  floating  up  from  the  bed  of  the  stream, 
while  the  light  of  day  dies  out,  and  the  stars 
begin  to  twinkle,  I  recall  the  lines  of  Keats, 

There  crept  a  little  noiseless  noise  amongst  the  leaves 
Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves. 

We  thank  him  for  a  score  of  other  things  on 
which  I  would  fain  enlarge,  because  of  his  intro- 
duction of  idealism  into  Art,  from  which  there  has 
been  so  sad  a  degeneracy  in  the  school  of  the 
Impressionists  in  France;  but,  I  pass  on  to  deal 
in  even  greater  brevity  with  one  who  is  a  still 
more  fascinating  personality  viz. :  Jean  Francois 
Millet. 

THERE  is  no  painter  "in  the  artist  list 
enrolled"  who  fascinates  us  in  some 
respects  in  the  same  way  as  that  French 
peasant,  Jean  Francois  Millet.    He  was 
"a  son  of  the  soil,"  and  other  nations  love  him 
somewhat  in  the  same  way  as  Scotsmen    love 
Robert  Burns.     I  know  how  honoured  he  was 
across  the  Atlantic,  and  also  how  many  of  you 
in  America  recognized  his  greatness  even  before 
the    French    or  the  English  did  so.     His  own 
noble  character,  his  admiration  of  simple  pea- 
sant life,  and   his  effort  to  transmit  represen- 
tations of  it  to  posterity  on  his  canvases,  his 
grand   struggle  with  adversity,    his    modesty — 
almost  unconscious  of  the  genius  that  underlay 

[57] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

it,  and  quite  unspoiled  by  the  success  that 
followed  it — all  these  have  been  recorded  for 
the  world  by  his  friends,  Sensier  and  Rous- 
seau, and  re-told  in  a  charming  manner  by  Miss 
Peacock. 

Apart  from  his  immortal  pictures — the  Glean- 
ers, the  Angelus,  the  Wood-Cutters,  the  Sower, 
the  Shepherdess — many  of  his  smaller  ones  are 
poems  on  canvas ;  such  as  the  Well  in  the  lonides 
Collection  at  South  Kensington,  which  tells  us 
as  much  as  any  well  I  have  seen,  except  the 
sacred  one  at  Nazareth.  The  peasant  genius 
of  this  half-educated  boy  went  back  inevitably 
and  intuitively  to  Michael  Angelo  for  strength, 
and  to  Poussin  for  gentleness.  The  records  of 
his  visits  to  the  Paris  Galleries,  the  Louvre  and 
the  Luxembourg,  are  profoundly  interesting. 
He  saw  little  in  the  latter  but  what  was  conven- 
tional, what  Miss  Peacock  wisely  calls  the  "re- 
pellent insipidity  of  invention  and  expression." 
The  greatly  popular,  but  quite  conventional, 
De  la  Roche  had  no  charm  for  him.  But,  in 
the  Louvre — that  superb  gallery  of  greatness, 
which  casts  its  spell  upon  and  over  every  lover 
of  the  Beautiful,  and  is  to  all  art-lovers  in  Paris 
the  chief  centre  of  attraction  in  the  city — he 
found  a  new  world  disclosed  to  him,  and  in  it  he 
lived  with  congenial  spirits  from  hour  to  hour. 

The  art  critics  of  the  day,  who  were  also  the 
adjudicators  of  the  honours  of  the  Parisian  gal- 

[58] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

lery,  were  not  yet  in  sympathy  with — they  did 
not  yet  understand — those  who  were  called  "  the 
men  of  1830,"  that  wondrous  little  band  of  com- 
rades who  came  to  be  known  and  talked  of  as 
"the  Barbizon  School;"  a  group  quite  as  im- 
portant in  the  history  of  Art  as  our  own  Pre- 
Raphaelite  brotherhood.  That  Nature  should 
be  a  mirror  of  man  in  its  most  transient  moods ; 
that  its  shadowy  evanescence,  that  its  sudden 
disclosures — which  tarried  for  no  eye  to  repro- 
duce— should  have  interest  to  anyone,  was  in- 
comprehensible to  the  academic  officials  of  the 
Salon ;  and  so,  the  works  of  this  group  of  painters 
were  systematically  shut  out  from  view.  For 
more  than  a  dozen  years  Rousseau  was  so  dis- 
paraged, and  excluded,  that  it  is  said  he  was 
familiarly  known  as  "Le  grand  refuse."  It 
mattered  nothing.  The  group  was  not  silenced. 
Their  hour  had  not  yet  come;  but  it  was  coming. 

And  slowly  the  art  critics  opened  their  eyes  to 
see  what  others  had  already  seen,  and  the  artists 
themselves  joined  in  the  tribute.  Diaz  wrote, 
"there  is  a  newcomer,  who  has  colour,  move- 
ment and  expression;  a  real  painter." 

But  it  was  not  yet  his  hour  of  triumph,  because 
his  most  distinctive  style  had  not  been  reached. 
Energy,  reality,  robustness  of  life,  strength  of 
purpose,  joyousness  of  work  were  shown ;  but  he 
next  painted  the  Sower,  which  is  to  be  seen  in 
your  Boston  Museum,  with  its  inimitable  sugges- 

[59] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

tion  of  patient  continuous  labour,  of  cheerful 
perseverance  in  well-doing  onwards  to  accom- 
plishment. It  was  now  that  he  saw,  and  said 
to  his  friend  Sensier,  "Art  is  not  a  partizan.  It 
is  a  battlefield.  Perhaps  it  is  suffering  that 
makes  the  artist  express  himself  best. " 

I  would  like  to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  Bar- 
bizon  district,  and  of  its  simple  forest-charm,  but 
it  is  impossible  here  and  now.  I  only  say  that 
it  is  questionable  if  anyone  loved  the  woods 
more  intensely  than  Millet  did,  unless  it  was 
the  great  Russian  musical  composer  Tschai- 
kovsky,  or  your  own  American  prose-writer 
Thoreau,  at  Walden.  But  it  is  more  important 
to  give  you  some  idea  of  the  man,  as  disclosed 
in  his  own  words.  He  wrote  thus  to  Sensier,  in 
a  letter  which  reveals  his  limitation,  as  well  as 
his  strength: 

"Peasant  subjects  suit  my  temperament  best; 
for  I  must  confess,  at  the  risk  of  being  taken  for 
a  Socialist,  that  the  human  side  in  Art  touches 
me  the  most;  and,  if  I  could  do  what  I  liked  best, 
I  would  undertake  nothing  either  in  landscape 
or  figure-painting  that  was  not  the  result  of  a 
direct  impression,  produced  by  some  aspect  of 
Nature.  The  joyous  side  never  shews  itself  to 
me.  I  do  not  know  where  it  is.  I  have  never 
seen  it.  The  most  joyful  thing  I  know  is  quietude, 
the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  silence,  so  delicious 
either  in  the  forest,  or  in  any  cultivated  spot." 

[60] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

And  thus  he  wrote  in  numerous  letters  to  his 
friends;  so  that,  whether  he  painted  a  sower  in 
the  fields,  or  peasants  going  to  work,  or  a  woman 
feeding  hens,  or  a  shepherd  or  shepherdess,  all 
have  the  indefinable  air  of  simplest  realism,  of 
peasant  life  as  he  knew  it,  in  its  hard  toil  and 
cheerful  labour,  which  he  delighted  to  portray; 
more  especially  the  peasant  shepherd-life  of 
France,  with  its  solitude,  its  watchfulness,  its 
patient  care.  Certainly  no  artist  ever  painted 
these  things  as  Millet  did. 

I  cannot  finish  my  estimate  of  the  work  of 
this  French  painter  without  quoting  to  you 
some  of  the  words  of  that  appreciator  of  his 
genius,  Miss  Netta  Peacock,  who  writes  thus: 
"Touched  by  a  sense  of  the  sacredness  of  the 
routine  of  field-life,  of  the  mystery  and  miracle 
of  changing  seasons  and  yielding  soil,  Millet 
went  straight  to  the  heart  of  things  for  his  mate- 
rial, in  all  humility  and  with  the  utmost  sin- 
cerity. Solitude,  real  and  profound,  he  has  in- 
troduced into  many  of  his  pictures,  but  never 
isolation;  for  his  figures  have  grown  out  of  their 
surroundings.  They  are  one  with  the  Universe. 
Silence  he  has  given  us — far-reaching,  stretched 
over  the  vast  plains,  brooding  peacefully  with 
outstretched  wings  over  mother  and  sleeping 
child,  or  tired  man  and  wife  resting  after  the 
continuous  toil  of  the  day.  *  *  *  His  figures  are 
a  type  of  the  everlastingness  of  labour.  Fate — 

[61] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

large-eyed  and  relentless — holds  the  worker  in 
her  grip;  dumbly  acquiescent,  he  waits  upon 
Nature's  ever  varying  moods,  and,  in  complete 
submission  to  eternal  law  and  order,  lives  and 
dies. 

"Though  every  chapter  in  the  great  Book  of 
Humanity  contains  an  idea,  the  only  one  that 
appealed  with  conviction  to  the  tender-hearted 
peasant  was  that  which  dealt  with  those  whose 
lives  are  cast  in  rugged  places.  His  strength 
lay  in  his  rare  sense  of  kinship  with  the  toilers 
of  the  land.  *  *  *  The  functions  of  rustic 
labour,  in  their  rythmic  rise  and  fall,  bear  a  cer- 
tain affinity  to  religious  ritual ;  they  are  removed 
from  the  domain  of  conscious  effort,  and  become 
unconscious  acts  of  worship.  Thus  it  was  that 
Millet  understood  the  life  of  the  fields. 

"In  the  most  humble  realities  of  rural  life  he 
has  shewn  us  eternal  truths.  In  an  attitude,  he 
conveys  the  deep  pathos  of  renunciation;  in  a 
gesture,  the  dignity  of  labour.  His  young  girls 
are  dreamers,  watching  geese,  tending  sheep,  or 
momentarily  roused  from  their  unassailable  tran- 
quillity, to  follow,  with  outstretched  neck  and 
straining  eye,  the  flight  of  the  bird  on  the  wing. 
His  women  are  mothers  caring  for  the  little  ones 
with  all  the  unplumbed  tenderness  of  mother- 
hood, or  housewives  faithfully  fulfilling  ordinary 
domestic  duties,  'the  daily  round,  the  common 
task. '  His  men  are  workers  with  homes,  earn- 

[62] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

ing  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow  the  daily  bread 
for  wife  and  child.  Everything  is  precious,  is 
holy ;  *  *  *  the  mystery,  the  sense  of  intimacy, 
the  poetry  extracted  from  little  things,  haunts  us 
with  the  persistence  of  a  half-forgotten  melody." 

Another  paragraph  I  may  add,  from  its  special 
reference  to  art-criticism:  "In  the  full  swing  of 
the  Romantic  regeneration,  Millet  remained 
solitary  and  apart.  He  was  a  realist,  full  of 
stern  ideals;  an  idealist  who  drew  deep  from 
life's  commonest  truths.  His  work  most  con- 
vincingly conveys  the  temper  of  his  mind  and 
the  colour  of  his  thought.  He  was  essentially  a 
painter  of  character;  he  did  not  seek  to  portray 
Beauty  for  itself,  but  managed  to  convey  the 
abiding  loveliness  of  all  that  is  humble,  whether 
in  Humanity  or  Nature." 

There  have  been  many  peasant  artists,  as  well 
as  noble  peasant  poets,  "sons  of  the  soil,"  who 
have  risen  from  lowly  homesteads,  and  done 
superlative  work,  outrivalling  all  their  superiors 
who  became  famous  in  the  lines  of  conventional 
Art;  but  none,  I  think,  have  ever  risen  and  re- 
tained from  first  to  last  the  splendid  peasant 
sympathies,  and  permanent  ideals,  that  J. 
Francois  Millet  did.  In  most  cases,  the  rise  of 
a  working-man  to  distinction  means  the  abandon- 
ment of  his  peasant  nature.  The  majority  for- 
get who  their  ancestors  were;  and  cannot,  or  will 
not,  let  you  know  anything  about  them.  As  one 

[63] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

of  my  own  clerical  friends  remarked,  when  he 
was  transferred  from  a  rural  parish  and  came  to 
live  in  a  prosperous  community  of  the  nouveaux 
riches,  and  had  to  minister  to  them  ecclesiastic- 
ally, "These  people  around  me  here  seem  never 
to  have  had  any  grandfathers  or  grandmothers, 
let  alone  their  parents. "  Now,  in  Millet  we  find 
from  first  to  last  in  his  career  almost  a  glorying 
in  the  peasant-ancestry  whence  he  came;  while 
the  constant  note  of  sincerity  and  reality  in  all  he 
did  emanated  from  that  source.  He  had  a  feel- 
ing for  Nature  quite  unborrowed  and  distinctive, 
a  sense  of  the  grandeur  of  its  ever-changing 
moods,  with  simple  peasant  toil  in  the  forefront, 
hard  day-labour  in  the  fields  while  the  sun  was 
shining,  with  evening  work  indoors.  He  also 
had  a  perception — as  Turner  had — of  the  mys- 
tery as  well  as  of  the  loveliness  of  Nature,  its 
latent  powers  of  life,  its  bountifulness  as  well  as 
its  gifts  to  man;  and  all  of  it  an  ally  to  devotion. 
This  it  was  which  stirred  up  in  him  a  life-long 
effort  to  reproduce  these  things  on  canvas;  and 
just  as  with  the  Pre-Raphaelites  in  England,  it 
was  a  reaction  from  the  conventional  Art  which 
went  before  it. 


[64] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

RETURNING  to  England  and  to  Tur- 
ner, I  remark  in  closing  that  no  artist 
in  the  world  ever  had  such  an  inter- 
preter and  vindicator  as  Turner  had  in 
Ruskin;  and  I  go  back  to  this  subject  in  order 
to  bring  out  some  new  points  in  reference  to  both 
men.  I  venture  to  say  that  Ruskin  demonstra- 
ted to  his  day  and  generation  that  Turner — whom 
so  many  of  his  contemporaries  thought  unnatural 
— was  the  truest  to  Nature  of  any  landscape 
artist  that  ever  lived;  so  that  he  effected  a  revo- 
lution, not  only  in  Art-criticism,  and  Art-ap- 
praisal, but  also  in  Art-production.  He  proved, 
as  well  as  affirmed,  that  the  "real  colour  of  Na- 
ture had  never  been  attempted  by  any  school." 
He  saw,  and  said,  that  "the  finish  and  specific 
grandeur  of  Nature  had  been  given ;  but  her  full- 
ness, space,  and  mystery,  never."  He  showed  that 
"for  conventional  colour"  Turner  substituted  a 
pure,  straightforward  rendering  of  facts,  not  of 
such  facts  as  had  been  before  attempted,  but  of 
all  that  is  most  brilliant  and  inimitable.  "He 
went  to  the  cataract  for  its  iris,  to  the  conflagra- 
tion for  its  flame,  asked  of  the  sea  its  intensest 
azure,  and  of  the  sky  its  clearest  gold."  More 
especially  he  shewed  that  "in  his  power  of  associ- 
ating cold  with  warm  light  no  one  has  ever  ap- 
proached him.  The  old  masters,  content  with 
one  simple  tone,  sacrificed  to  its  unity  all  the 
exquisite  gradations  and  varied  touches  of  re- 

[65] 


lief  and  change,  by  which  Nature  unites  her  ad- 
vancing hours,  one  with  another.  They  give 
the  warmth  of  the  sinking  sun,  over-whelming 
all  things  in  its  gold;  but  they  do  not  give 
those  gray  passages  about  the  horizon,  when — 
seen  through  its  dying  light — the  cool  and 
the  gloom  of  night  gather  themselves  for  their 
victory." 

Again  Ruskin  writes,  "Turner,  and  Turner 
only,  could  follow  and  render  that  mystery  of 
decided  line,  that  distinct,  sharp,  visible  but  in- 
extricable richness,  which — examined  part  by 
part — is  to  the  eye  nothing  but  confusion  and 
defect;  but,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  all  unity,  mys- 
tery and  truth."  And  he  adds:  *  Turner  in- 
troduced a  new  era  in  landscape  Art  by  shewing 
that  the  foreground  may  be  sunk  for  the  sake  of 
the  distance;  and  that  it  is  possible  to  express 
proximity  to  the  spectator  without  giving  anything 
like  completeness  to  near  objects."  Again,  "if 
we  have  to  express  varied  light,  our  first  aim  must 
be  to  get  the  shadows  sharp  and  visible;  and  this 
is  not  to  be  done  by  blackness.  They  must  be 
clear,  distinct,  and  even  shot  with  light,"  as  he 
puts  it. 

The  marvellous  secret  of  Turner's  shadows  is 
the  way  in  which  they  adumbrate  the  light,  and 
reveal  its  mystery.  They  speak  to  us  whole  vol- 
lumes  describing  the  power  and  glory  of  Nature, 
whether  seen  in  the  sky  or  on  the  hills,  in  the 

[66] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

rivers  or  the  sea,  or  the  grass  of  the  field.  They 
interpret  so  much  to  us,  and  enable  us  to  recog- 
nize new  splendours  in  the  commonplace. 


[67] 


PLATE  VII 


COROT  :   Painted  by  himself 


•flj 

(2 

a 


w 

H 


PLATE  IX 


VIEU  DE  TOSCANE 


W 


~ 


BQ 


LECTURE    THIRD 

RUSKIN;  AS  ART  CRITIC  AND  MORAL- 
IST, WITH  SOME  PERSONAL 
REMINISCENCES 

AM  to  speak  of  Ruskin  both 
as  an  art  critic  and  a  moral 
teacher,  but  I  shall  interweave 
one  or  two  reminiscences  which 
are  now,  alas !  among  the  dis- 
tant praeterita. 

I  shall  deal  with  general  char- 
acteristics rather  than  details,  and  try  and  give 
you  a  few  photographs  of  character.  But  since 
I  place  Ruskin  so  high  amongst  the  teachers 
of  the  Nineteenth  Century — indeed  very  near  the 
summit-level — the  language  of  praise  must  give 
place  to  a  strictly  judicial  estimate.  We  are  all 
of  us  the  richer  because  he  lived  and  taught;  we 
should  therefore  be  able  to  answer  the  ques- 
tions, what  is  it  that  we  owe  to  him  ?  and  what  is 
the  measure  of  our  debt  ? 

In  answer  to  these  questions,  it  may  be  said 
[69] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

first  of  all  that  no  one  ever  emphasized  more 
clearly  than  Ruskin  did  the  distinction  between 
the  orovinces  of  the  True,  the  Beautiful,  and  the 
Good;  whether  on  the  map  of  human  knowledge, 
or  in  the  realm  of  appreciation  and  attainment. 
No  one  has  shewn  so  well  their  inner  affinities, 
and  the  ties  which  bind  them  together.  He 
could  never  have  written,  as  Keats  did, 

Beauty  is  Truth,  Truth  Beauty, — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 

To  a  dictum  so  one-sided,  he  would  have  re- 
plied by  a  direct  negative;  and  both  in  writing 
and  in  conversation,  from  first  to  last,  he  unfolded 
the  distinction  between  the  two  provinces,  clearly 
and  unmistakably.  But  he  also  knew  their 
correspondences;  and  shewed  us  how  to  pass 
from  the  one  to  the  other  with  ease,  adroitness, 
and  inevitableness.  He  unfolded — as  I  think 
few,  if  any,  have  done  so  well — their  inner  re- 
lationships, their  underlying  unity,  and  abid- 
ing harmony.  This  gave  precision,  as  well  as 
breadth  and  comprehensiveness,  to  his  teaching. 
I  may  even  say  of  it  that  it  was  ultimately  "  com- 
pacted" to  others,  by  "that  which  every  joint 
supplied"  to  himself. 

Mention  should  next  be  made  of  his  unique 
gift  of  varied  intuition ;  in  other  words,  his  power 
of  getting  at  once,  and  without  effort,  below  the 
surface  of  things — discarding  their  conventional 
aspects,  and  discerning  deep  principles  under- 
go] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

neath.  Take  this  in  connection  with  the  growth 
of  his  character,  the  unfolding  of  his  genius 
in  many  different  directions,  and  the  consequent 
changes  which  occurred  in  his  point  of  view. 
You  will  find  the  germ  of  his  latest  teaching 
within  some  of  his  earliest  opinions,  and  frag- 
ments of  his  youthful  judgments  surviving  in  his 
final  sayings  as  to  Nature  and  Man;  but  all  of 
them  expanded,  modified,  at  times  transfigured. 
So  that,  what  a  surface  critic  deems  (and  often 
calls)  an  inconsistency — in  matters  of  Art,  Re- 
ligion, or  Politics — is  really  a  sign  of  its  opposite, 
with  the  added  evidence  of  development.  As  one 
of  the  best  of  our  recent  writers  has  said,  "The 
highest  consistency  is  inconsistent.  The  great- 
est teacher  cannot  write  twice  alike;  because, 
from  his  second  point  of  view  he  sees  more,  and 
has  more  to  say." 

Some  persons  have  thought  that  Ruskin's 
utterances — both  on  Art,  and  Political  Economy 
— are  dogmatic  and  dictatorial,  having  about 
them  an  infallibilist  air.  It  may  be  so;  but 
should  we  wonder  at  it  ?  It  is  a  characteristic 
of  all  strong  men  that  they  speak  with  confidence 
of  the  conclusions  that  they  have  reached,  and 
the  principles  they  hold.  And  we  should  test 
all  that  Ruskin  (more,  perhaps,  than  any  of  his 
contemporaries)  has  said  in  the  light  of  its  evolu- 
tion; of  the  opinions  that  originated,  and  the 
circumstances  that  gave  it  shape.  A  knowledge 

[71] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

of  his  career,  especially  as  unfolded  in  his  own 
fragments  of  autobiography — in  Proeteritay  Fors 
Clavigera,  the  Arrows  of  the  Chase,  and  Hortus 
Inclusus — will  illustrate  this. 

As  I  have  alluded  to  his  views  on  Political 
Economy,  it  may  be  added  that  his  teaching  on 
this  subject — stripped  of  a  few  extravagances — 
is  really  very  simple,  and  at  its  root  may  be  in- 
dorsed by  those  who  cannot  follow  him  in  all  his 
inferences  and  practical  schemes.  The  follow- 
ing are  a  few  of  his  sentences  on  the  subject: 

"As  Domestic  Economy  regulates  the  arts  and 
habits  of  a  household,  Political  Economy  regulates 
those  of  a  Society  or  State.  It  is  neither  an  art, 
nor  a  science,  but  a  system  of  conduct  and  legis- 
lature." *  *  "The  great  law  which  is  to  govern 
the  production  and  distribution  of  wealth  is  the 
law  of  Co-operation."  *  *  "Government  and 
Co-operation  are  the  laws  of  life ;  anarchy  and 
competition  the  laws  of  death."  *  *  "When  I 
use  the  word  '  Co-operation, '  I  use  it  as  opposed 
not  to  masterhood,  but  to  competition." 

The  following  sentences  may  not  be  so  uni- 
versally endorsed,  but  they  are  no  less  true;  and 
if  adopted,  and  acted  out  beneficently,  they 
would  revolutionize  our  commerce,  and  raise  the 
whole  tone  of  our  social  and  national  life:  "Mas- 
ters are  not  to  undersell  each  other,  nor  seek  each 
to  get  the  other's  business,  but  are  all  to  form  one 
Society,  selling  under  a  severe  penalty  for  unjust 

[72] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

dealing,  and  at  an  established  price/'  "And  I 
mean  by  Cooperation  not  only  fellowship  be- 
tween trading/rmj,  but  between  trading  nations" 
I  do  not  need  to  expound  his  Political  Econ- 
omy any  farther;  except  to  say  this,  that  it  is  not 
only  based  upon,  but  that  it  overflows  into,  Ethics ; 
and  is  everywhere  interpenetrated  by  moral 
truth.  For  example,  in  dealing  with  the  true 
nature  of  Possession,  he  teaches  that  we  possess 
only  when  we  beneficially  use  what  we  have  for 
the  benefit  of  others  as  well  as  ourselves;  and 
furthermore — paradoxical  as  it  may  seem — ive 
continue  to  possess  the  best  part  of  what  we  have, 
after  we  have  given  it  away.  No  one  understood 
better  than  Ruskin  did  the  truth  which  lies 
within  the  apostolic  paradox,  "  Having  nothing, 
and  yet  possessing  all  things;"  and  his  unparal- 
leled philanthropy  not  only  to  individuals,  but 
to  Institutions,  Societies  and  Guilds,  reacted  on 
himself.  It  made  him  feel  a  richer  man  than 
the  nominal  possessor  of  things,  with  which  mere 
wealth  may  load  the  millionaire ;  who  has  neither 
the  wit  to  understand,  nor  the  sympathy  to  enjoy 
them.  His  founding  of  Museums  and  creation 
of  Industries,  his  gifts  to  Colleges  and  Schools, 
are  proof  of  this.  The  Oxford  Drawing  School, 
the  Museum  at  Meersbrook  Park,  Sheffield,  his 
gifts  to  Whitelands  Women's  College,  and  to 
the  Working  Men's  College  in  London;  those 
to  the  girls'  school  in  the  city  of  Cork,  the  insti- 

[73] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

tution  of  the  St.  George's  Guild,  and  the  subse- 
quent work  of  the  Langdale  Linen  Industry  and 
the  Keswick  Art  School  are  its  farther  develop- 
ments and  outcome.  These  most  munificent  gifts 
have  given  rise  to  a  multitude  of  others,  of  which 
time  would  fail  me  to  tell  you.  Glass  industries 
in  London,  silver  ones  at  Chipping  Hampden, 
others  near  Birmingham.  But  above  all  William 
Morris's  work  and  art  industries.  I  need  not  at- 
tempt an  inventory  of  them,  but  the  one  thing  to 
be  noted  is  that  the  founders,  and  subsequent 
workers  cared  nothing  for  practical  return  in  the 
way  of  income,  in  comparison  with  turning  out 
good  and  beautiful  work.  They  have  all  caught 
their  inspiration  from  Ruskin.  They  are  his 
spiritual  children.  During  his  lifetime  Ruskin 
gifted  the  most  of  the  fortune  which  his  father  left 
him,  £157,000,  to  public  objects  and  ends;  and 
no  modern  Englishman  has  more  fully  under- 
stood, and  acted  out,  the  meaning  of  the  motto 
which  became  the  title  of  one  of  George  Fred- 
erick Watts'  most  famous  pictures,  "What  I 
spent,  I  had;  what  I  saved,  I  lost;  what  I  gave, 
I  have." 

And  now  (as  perhaps  you  are  not  all  familiar 
with  it)  I  quote  the  noble  confession  of  faith 
which  the  members  of  the  St.  George's  Guild — 
which  Ruskin  founded — are  asked  to  make 
(omitting  only  its  eighth  and  final  section) : 

"I. — I  trust  in  the  living  God,  Father  Almighty, 
[74] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Maker  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  of  all  things  and 
creatures,  visible  and  invisible.  I  trust  in  the 
kindness  of  His  law,  and  the  goodness  of  His 
work  and  I  will  strive  to  love  Him  and  to  keep 
His  law,  that  I  may  see  His  work  while  I  live. 

II. — I  trust  in  the  nobleness  of  human  nature 
— in  the  majesty  of  its  faculties,  and  the  joy  of 
its  love.  I  will  strive  to  love  my  neighbour  as 
myself;  and,  even  when  I  cannot,  I  will  act  as  if 
I  did. 

III. — I  will  labour,  with  such  strength  and 
opportunity  as  God  gives  me,  for  my  daily  bread ; 
and  all  that  my  hand  finds  to  do,  I  will  do  it  with 
my  might. 

IV. — I  will  not  deceive,  or  cause  to  be  de- 
ceived, any  human  being,  for  my  gain  or  pleasure ; 
nor  hurt,  nor  cause  to  be  hurt,  any  human  being 
for  my  gain  or  pleasure;  nor  rob,  nor  cause  to 
be  robbed,  any  human  being  for  my  gain  or 
pleasure. 

V. — I  will  not  hurt  any  living  creature  need- 
lessly, nor  destroy  any  beautiful  thing;  but  will 
strive  to  save  and  comfort  all  gentle  life,  and 
guard  and  perfect  all  natural  beauty  upon  the 
earth. 

VI. — I  will  strive  to  raise  my  own  body  and 
soul  daily  into  higher  powers  of  duty  and  happi- 
ness; not  in  rivalship  or  contention  with  others, 
but  for  the  help,  delight  and  honour  of  others, 
and  for  the  joy  and  peace  of  my  own  life. 

[75] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

VII. — I  will  obey  all  the  laws  of  my  country 
faithfully ;  and  the  orders  of  its  monarch,  so  far 
as  such  laws  and  commands  are  consistent  with 
what  I  suppose  to  be  the  law  of  God ;  and  when 
they  are  not  so,  or  seem  in  any  wise  to  need 
change,  I  will  oppose  them  loyally  and  deliber- 
ately— not  with  malicious,  concealed  or  disorderly 
violence." 

I  maintain  that  Ruskin  was  as  great  (perhaps 
a  greater)  philosophical  moralist,  than  he  was  a 
teacher  and  interpreter  of  the  Beautiful ;  but  he 
would  never  have  become  the  ethical  teacher  he 
was,  had  he  not  exercised  his  function,  through 
the  channel  of  art-criticism.  All  that  life-long 
appraisal,  that  deft  art-judgment  of  his,  subserved 
an  ethical  end,  and  was  meant  to  work  towards 
a  moral  purpose ;  not  explicitly,  seldom  directly 
or  ostensibly;  but  always  implicitly,  indirectly, 
and  thus  the  more  unerringly.  He  could  not 
speak  of  a  forgotten  artist,  or  deal  with  a  great 
picture — whether  well  or  little  known — without 
introducing  this.  And  so,  in  season  and  out  of 
season,  all  life-long,  he  threw  emphasis  on  the  value 
of  patient  toil,  of  conscientious  and  honest  labour, 
according  to  one's  highest  light.  He  believed  in 
the  everlastingness  of  all  that  was  good  and  true, 
its  endurance  in  the  lives  of  others;  a  transmitted 
power  sent  forth  from  the  worker  when  his  work 
was  done.  He  affirmed  the  supremacy  and  im- 
mortality of  goodness.  Art  was  nothing  to  him 

[76] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

if  it  was  not  an  aid  to  a  refined  and  noble  life. 
Thus  his  aim  was  to  be  an  interpreter  of  the 
laws  of  conduct,  more  than  an  appraiser  of  things 
beautiful,  and  his  passionate  desire  was  to 
succeed  in  this. 

Over  and  over  again  he  said  to  us  that  a  well-built 
character  was  the  greatest  of  all  possible  human 
treasures;  and  that  the  supreme  question  for  all 
of  us  was  not  "what  do  we  possess  ?"  but  "what 
do  our  possessions  do  for  us?";  not  "how  much 
have  they  cost  us?,"  but  "how  do  they  benefit 
others  ?"  If  you  carefully  read  Modern  Painters, 
The  Stones  of  Venice,  Fors  Clavigera,  and  Unto 
this  Last,  you  hear  throughout  these  volumes  the 
voice  of  the  prophet,  the  seer,  the  moralist  of  all 
time,  the  teacher  and  interpreter  of  conduct.  It 
is  in  this  sense  that  I  affirm  that  he  was  a  great 
philosopher,  not,  observe,  a  mere  lover  of  wisdom, 
but  one  who  lived  and  moved  and  had  his  being 
in  it;  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  his  writings 
contain  so  much  "fine  gold."  Who,  I  ask,  has 
unfolded  the  laws  of  the  world  in  which  we  live, 
in  relation  to  human  action,  more  clearly,  ade- 
quately, fully;  or  given  us  a  better  key  by  which 
we  may  for  ourselves  unlock  its  more  hidden 
treasures  ?  Wordsworth  did  this  in  many  won- 
derful ways;  but,  as  a  teacher  who  has  helped 
to  adjust  for  us  the  harmony  between  Man  and 
Nature,  to  bring  the  inner  world  of  feeling 
imagination  thought  and  conduct  into  continu- 

[77] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

ous  and  wise  rapport  with  the  external  world  in 
which  we  live,  I  consider  that  Ruskin  has  done 
us  a  still  greater  service. 

In  the  mere  recital,  and  portrayal,  of  the  glories 
of  the  outer  Universe — in  mountains,  clouds, 
seas,  rivers,  woods,  meadows,  and  flowers — dis- 
closing this  in  magnificent  and  lordly  prose,  he 
touches  the  inner  springs  of  life  (because  the  two 
realms  are  fundamentally  kindred),  bringing  us 
out  of  the  artificiality  in  which  we  get  so  often 
entangled  by  trifles,  befogged  by  prejudice,  or 
become  the  slaves  of  fashion.  Ruskin  has  helped 
us  to  apprehend  the  abiding  reality  of  things, 
and  has  taught  us  farther  what  to  see  in  age  with 
the  bright  keen  eye  of  youth,  and  the  joyous  in- 
tuitive apprehension  of  little  children.  It  is 
true  that  Wordsworth  explained  (I  quote  from 
his  preface  to  The  Excursions) 

How  exquisitely  the  individual  mind 
*     *     *     to  the  external  world 
Is  fitted,  and  how  exquisitely,  too, 
The  external  world  is  fitted  to  the  mind. 

and  again,  in  the  poem  on  Tintern  Abbey,  he 
pleads  with  us: 

to  recognize 

In  Nature,  and  the  language  of  the  sense 
The  anchor  of  our  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  the  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  our  moral  being, 

But  I  think  we  may  describe  Ruskin's  teach- 
ings as  to  the  influence  of  Nature  over  man  in 

[78] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the   language   which   Wordsworth   used  of  his 
wonderful  Sister's  influence: 

She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears, 
And  humble  hopes  and  delicate  fears, 
A  heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears, 
And  love,  and  hope,  and  joy. 

He  taught  us  that,  in  order  to  understand  Na- 
ture aright,  we  must  become  as  little  children. 
We  must  approach  her  with  reverent  wistfulness, 
with  thankful  joyousness,  and  in  a  "wise  passive- 
ness."  We  must  come  to  her  trustfully  yet  en- 
quiringly, with  tranquil  solicitude  and  a  glad 
receptiveness. 

Then,  further,  while  the  main  or  central  truths 
which  he  teaches  are  as  simple  as  they  are  pro- 
found, and  can  be  easily  apprehended  by  any- 
one who  is  docile  and  unsophisticated,  because 
they  "lie  foursquare  to  all  the  winds  that  blow," 
there  is  perhaps  no  writer  on  Art  whose  casual 
remarks,  and  passing  commentary,  or  obiter 
dicta  are  so  suggestive,  illuminative,  and  in- 
spiring. 

It  is  a  notable  thing  in  Ruskin's  career  that 
beginning  as  a  student  of  Art,  he  soon  saw — as 
few  have  done — that  initiation  into  its  true 
principles  will  lead  us  far  beyond  it;  that  it  con- 
ducts, and  must  conduct,  to  the  central  principles 
of  morality.  I  give  you  a  list  of  these  as  I  used 
to  put  them  before  the  students  of  philosophy  at 
St.  Andrews:  truthfulness,  sincerity,  honesty, 

[79] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

elevation,  nobleness,  reverence,  reticence,  ad- 
miration, magnanimity,  piety,  obedience.  Take 
the  last  of  these.  I  ask  who  outside  the  roll  of 
Palestinian  seers  has  taught  us  better,  or  so  well, 
the  grand  virtue  of  obedience  to  law  and  order  ? 
Who  has  emphasized  more  clearly  the  joy  of  such 
submission  and  fealty  ?  Perpetual  self-assertion 
of  our  ambitious  littleness  tempts  many  of  us  to 
rise  in  insurrection  against  the  gracious  limits  of 
that  order,  and  leads  others  to  rebel  against  the 
primary  laws  of  conduct,  listening  to  siren  voices, 
and  yielding  to  the  bribe,  "Ye  shall  be  as  gods, 
knowing  good  and  evil."  But  the  glad  sur- 
render of  self  to  a  law  that  is  higher  than  we  are, 
joyous  obedience  to  it,  glorying  in  being  its 
servant,  that — according  to  Ruskin — is  the  path- 
way to  felicity  for  each  individual  man,  woman, 
and  child.  Nay,  more,  it  is  the  royal  road  to  the 
greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  number,  in  the 
highest  degree,  and  for  the  longest  time,  if  only 
our  political  economists  would  let  them  know  it ! 
Along  with  this,  there  is  another  duty  on 
which  he  lays  emphasis,  viz. :  a  cheerful  recogni- 
tion of  the  fact  that  others  around  us  are  achiev- 
ing what  we  can  never  accomplish,  that  they  are 
now  above  us  and  will  remain  above  us;  and 
therefore  that  our  business  is  not  to  envy  them — 
far  less  to  try  vainly  to  outstrip  and  dislodge 
them  from  their  pre-eminence,  or  put  in  a  claim 
to  be  as  good  as  they  are — but  simply  to  look 

[80] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

with  unenvious  eye  on  their  achievements,  to  be 
taught  by  their  successes,  and  to  rejoice  in  them 
even  more  than  in  our  own.  Were  such  a  spirit 
realized  in  practice,  would  not  this  be  a  better 
world  to  live  in,  than  that  of  jostling  competi- 
tion, of  feverish  struggle,  of  rival  interests,  and 
insane  conflict  ? 

I  think  I  am  right  in  saying  that,  in  respect  to 
these  things,  the  influence  of  Ruskin  is  now 
greater  than  it  was  while  he  lived.  He  has 
stirred  up  hundreds  and  thousands  of  young 
men  and  maidens,  of  old  men  and  children,  to 
rejoice  in  their  work,  finding  it  "a  joy  for  ever;" 
he  taught  his  contemporaries,  and  he  is  now 
teaching  his  successors,  the  blessedness  of  self- 
forgetful  labour;  he  has  cut  out  from  the  ambi- 
tion of  scores  of  people  the  sordid  craving  for 
accumulation,  the  love  of  mere  display,  the  long- 
ing to  be  "in  the  swim,"  whether  of  fashion  or 
frivolity ;  he  has  broken  up  their  chase  of  illusive 
good.  And  so,  his  whole  life  being  a  protest 
against  the  current  materialism  of  his  time,  he 
has  put  a  new  meaning  into  the  words  of  a  pred- 
ecessor, 

We  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love. 

As  to  his  influence  as  a  teacher  in  the  realm 
of  Art,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  he  inaugurated  a 
new  era  of  criticism.  He  succeeded  in  banishing 
the  old  canons  of  taste;  he  revolutionized  the 
judgments  and  sympathies  of  his  fellow  country- 

[81] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

men;  he  taught  them  that  Art  has  a  mission  as 
great  as  Philosophy,  Science,  and  the  Belles- 
Lettres;  that  its  function  is  to  educate  as  well  as 
to  delight,  and  to  delight  by  educating.  He  thus 
shews  us  that  all  noble  Art  is  a  portrayal  less  or 
more  of  the  inherent  truth  of  things,  of  that  vital 
strength  and  beauty  which  underlie  appearances. 
He  has  taught  us  that  when  we  apprehend  the 
ideal  within  the  actual,  or  beyond  and  above  it, 
we  ascend  to  what  Tennyson  calls  "the  roof  and 
crown  of  things;"  or — to  put  it  otherwise — we 
pass  into  the  Temple's  inner  shrine.  Furthermore 
that,  while  the  perception  of  Beauty  elicits  ad- 
miration, it  should  lead  on  to  homage,  and  end 
in  worship ;  because,  as  he  put  it,  "all  great  Art 
is  praise." 

I  shall  say  nothing  about  his  poems;  but,  as  a 
writer  of  the  most  poetic  prose,  he  was  certainly 
the  chief  Englishman  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
far  superior,  for  example,  to  De  Quincey.  Mr. 
Mather  has  said,  truly  as  well  as  beautifully, 
that  "as  a  writer,  strength  and  beauty  are  in  his 
right  hand."  Mr.  Spillman  and  Mr.  Frederic 
Harrison  both  speak  of  him  as  the  chief  wielder 
of  our  English  prose.  It  is  true  that  he  had 
notable  masters,  and  many  sources  of  inspiration; 
the  English  Bible,  with  our  noble  Anglo-Sax"on 
Prayer-book,  Homer,  Hooker,  Scott,  Carlyle ;  but 
his  own  style  is  unique  and  unborrowed  from 
anyone.  It  is  the  outcome  of  spirit-vision,  the 

[82] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

language  of  a  soul  on  fire,  the  clear,  indubious 
utterance  of  one  who  felt  the  truth  of  the  saying, 
"There  are,  it  may  be,  so  many  kinds  of  voices  in 
the  world,  and  none  of  them  is  without  significa- 
tion," of  a  spirit  familiar  with  many  an  apoca- 
lypse of  the  Beautiful.  His  winged  words  were 
the  inevitable  outcome  of  his  "open  vision." 
Ruskin's  language  is  lucid,  because  his  thought 
was  always  clear.  Had  the  latter  been  obscure 
or  clouded,  the  former  would  have  been  intricate, 
perplexed,  or  halting.  But  in  all  his  writings  the 
seer,  the  artist,  and  the  poet  combined  to  make 
the  stylist.  He  used  to  lament  that  people  cared 
more  for  the  form  than  for  the  substance  of  his 
teaching.  "All  my  life,"  he  said,  "I  have  been 
talking  to  the  people;  and  they  care  not  for  the 
matter,  but  only  for  the  manner  of  my  words. 
I  find  I  have  been  talking  too  much,  and  doing 
too  little."  And  he  was  so  modest  as  to  his 
success  in  writing  descriptive  prose  that  he  said 
Tennyson  had  beaten  him  entirely  as  a  delin- 
eator, or  "illustrator  of  natural  beauty." 

Mr.  Frederic  Harrison  has  directed  our  special 
attention  to  the  right  noble  description  of  the 
Old  Tower  of  Calais  Church  in  the  fourth  volume 
of  Modern  Painters,  which  is  certainly  one  of  the 
grandest  things  Ruskin  ever  wrote.  I  shall  not 
quote  it,  but  rather — with  the  same  end  in  view 
as  Mr.  Harrison's — read  you  part  of  a  letter 
written  from  Laon  in  the  north  of  France,  and 

[83] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

descriptive  of  it,  which  I  am  sure  you  have  never 
heard,  as  it  has  not  been  printed.  It  is,  I  think, 
equal  to  the  best  that  has  seen  the  light  of  day; 
and  it  is  also  a  good  example  of  the  length  of  his 
sentences,  which  do  not  seem  long,  and  which 
could  with  difficulty  be  shortened.  You  are 
perhaps  aware  that  there  is  a  sentence  in  Modern 
Painters,  in  which  there  are  628  words,  with  73 
commas  and  semicolons!  What  I  am  going  to 
read  is  not  of  that  portentous  length,  but  it  was 
written  at  a  single  sitting,  and  it  is  an  instance  of 
his  earlier  style  surviving  in  later  years. 

"Laon,  August  12,  1882. 

"We  had  a  hardish  day  from  Calais  here,  and 
did  not  get  in  till  supper  time.  Clean  beds,  and 
windows  looking  out  on  the  country,  freshened 
us  for  early  coffee;  and  we  have  been  out  from 
half  past  seven  till  half  past  ten,  exploring  in  real 
French  morning  sunshine.  Except  Assissi,  I 
never  saw  a  place  like  it ;  cathedral,  for  that  mat- 
ter, out  and  out  grander  than  Assissi  would  be 
without  the  supporting  terraces;  instead  of  them 
it  has  avenues  of  plane  trees,  above  a  sloping 
garden  of  mixed  vineyard  and  flowers;  and  the 
town — cheerfully  old-fashioned,  and  lively,  yet 
contented — with  the  quaintest  pepper-boxes,  and 
cruets,  and  cats-ears  of  ins  and  outs  on  roofs,  and 
ups  and  downs  in  walls;  and  on  the  really  old 
oiltside  walls,  the  houses  mixed  up  among  the 

[84] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

buttresses  and  towers;  with  a  window  here,  and 
a  balcony  there;  and  a  bit  of  arch  built  in,  and  a 
bit  of  bow  built  out;  and  a  peep-hole  in  the  roof, 
and  a  secret  stair  in  the  corner;  and  nooks,  and 
crooks,  and  outlooks,  and  sidelooks;  and  beauti- 
ful bits  of  garden  kept  gay,  but  not  trim;  and 
vines,  and  pear-trees  drooping  all  over  with  big 
pears;  and  lovely  moss  and  ivy,  and  feathery 
green,  and  house-leek,  and  everything  that  ever 
grew  on  walls,  or  in  chinks;  and  every  now  and 
then  a  cluster  of  spring  bluebells,  rooted  on  a 
buttress  angle  and  seven  feet  high  themselves, 
like  fox-gloves  made  saints  of,  and  going  off  into 
raptures  of  chime;  and  little  wells  dripping  into 
cisterns,  and  recesses  with  steps  down  and  roofs 
over;  for  all  the  world  like  .Siena,  with  sweet  gush 
and  tinkle  and  gleam  of  running  surface,  and 
presently  all  aglow  again  with  marigolds  and 
purple  clematis,  and  scarlet  geraniums,  and  blue 
distance  seen  all  beyond.  *  *  * 

"Yours,  John  Ruskin." 

This  letter  may  be  followed  by  two  passages 
from  Modern  Painters.  The  first  is  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  Roman  Campagna : 

"Perhaps  there  is  no  more  impressive  scene 
on  earth  than  the  solitary  extent  of  the  Cam- 
pagna of  Rome  under  evening  light.  Let  the 
reader  imagine  himself  for  the  moment  with- 
drawn from  the  sounds  and  motion  of  the  living 
world,  and  sent  forth  alone  into  this  wild  and 

[85] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

wasted  plain.  The  earth  yields  and  crumbles 
beneath  his  foot,  tread  he  never  so  lightly;  for 
its  substance  is  white,  hollow,  and  carious,  like 
the  dusty  wreck  of  the  bones  of  men.  The  long, 
knotted  grass  waves  and  tosses  feebly  in  the 
evening  wind,  and  the  shadows  of  its  motion 
shake  feverishly  along  the  banks  of  ruin  that  lift 
themselves  to  the  sunlight.  Hillocks  of  mould- 
ering earth  heave  around  him,  as  if  the  dead 
beneath  were  struggling  in  their  sleep.  Scattered 
blocks  of  black  stone,  four-square  remnants 
of  mighty  edifices,  not  one  left  upon  another,  lie 
upon  them,  to  keep  them  down.  A  dull  purple 
poisonous  haze  stretches  level  along  the  desert, 
veiling  its  spectral  wrecks  of  many  ruins,  on 
whose  rents  the  red  light  rests,  like  dying  fire  on 
defiled  altars;  the  blue  ridge  of  the  Alban  Mount 
lifts  itself  against  a  solemn  space  of  green,  clear, 
quiet  sky;  watch  towers  of  dark  clouds  stand 
steadfastly  along  the  promontories  of  the  Apen- 
nines; from  the  plain  to  the  mountains,  the  shat- 
tered aqueducts,  pier  beyond  pier,  melt  into  the 
darkness  like  shadowy  and  countless  troops  of 
funeral  mourners,  passing  from  a  nation's  grave." 
(From  the  Preface  to  Modern  Painters,  1843.) 
One  instinctively  compares  this  with  Brown- 
ing's characterization  of  the  Campagna  in  one 
of  his  lyrics.  His  poem  is  entitled  Two  in  the 
Campagna,  of  which  the  following  are  three 
stanzas: 

[86] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt,  since  hand  in  hand, 
We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 

In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 
This  morn  of  Rome  and  Mav? 


The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

Such  life  there,  through  such  length  of  hours, 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  nature  have  her  way, 
While  Heaven  looks  from  its  towers! 

Again  take  what  Ruskin  wrote  about  the 
clouds  of  the  sky.  "It  is  a  strange  thing  how 
little  in  general  people  know  about  the  sky.  It 
is  the  part  of  creation  in  which  Nature  has  done 
more  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  man,  more  for  the 
sole  and  evident  purpose  of  talking  to  him  and 
teaching  him,  than  in  any  other  of  her  works, 
and  it  is  just  the  part  in  which  we  least  attend 
to  her.  Every  essential  purpose  of  the  sky  might, 
so  far  as  we  know,  be  answered,  if  once  in  three 
days  or  thereabouts,  a  great,  ugly  black  rain- 
cloud  were  brought  up  over  the  blue,  and  every- 
thing well  watered,  and  so  all  left  blue  again  till 
next  time,  with  perhaps  a  film  of  morning  and 
evening  mist  for  dew.  And,  instead  of  this,  there 
is  not  a  moment  of  any  day  of  our  lives  when 
Nature  is  not  producing  scene  after  scene,  pic- 

[87] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

ture  after  picture,  glory  after  glory,  and  work- 
ing still  upon  such  exquisite  and  constant  prin- 
ciples of  the  most  perfect  beauty;  and  it  is  quite 
certain  it  is  all  done  for  us,  and  intended  for  our 
perpetual  pleasure.  And  every  man,  wherever 
placed,  however  far  from  other  scources  of  in- 
terest or  beauty,  has  this  being  done  for  him 
constantly.  The  sky  is  fitted  in  all  its  functions 
for  the  perpetual  comfort  and  exalting  of  the 
heart,  for  the  soothing  of  it,  and  purifying  it  from 
its  dross  and  dust.  Sometimes  gentle,  sometimes 
capricious,  sometimes  awful,  never  the  same  for 
two  moments  together ;  almost  human  in  its  pas- 
sions, almost  spiritual  in  its  tenderness,  almost 
divine  in  its  infinity." 

Again  this  is  the  way  in  which  he  describes  a 
cliff:  "A  group  of  trees  changes  the  colour  of 
its  leafage  from  week  to  week,  and  its  position 
from  day  to  day;  it  is  sometimes  languid  with 
heat,  and  sometimes  heavy  with  rain ;  the  torrent 
swells  or  falls  in  shower  or  sun ;  the  best  leaves 
of  the  foreground  may  be  dined  upon  by  cattle, 
or  trampled  by  unwelcome  investigators  of  the 
chosen  scene.  But  the  cliff  can  neither  be  eaten 
nor  trampled  down;  neither  bowed  by  the  shad- 
ow, nor  withered  by  the  heat;  it  is  always  ready 
for  us,  when  we  are  inclined  to  labour;  will  al- 
ways wait  for  us,  when  we  would  rest;  and,  what 
is  best  of  all,  will  always  talk  to  us  when  we  are 
inclined  to  converse.  With  its  own  patient  and 

[88] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

victorious  presence,  cleaving  daily  through  cloud 
after  cloud,  and  reappearing  still  through  the 
tempest  drift,  lofty  and  serene  through  the  pass- 
ing rents  of  blue,  it  seems  partly  to  rebuke,  and 
partly  to  guard,  and  partly  to  calm  and  chasten, 
the  agitations  of  the  feeble  human  soul  that 
watches  it;  and  that  must  be  indeed  a  dark  per- 
plexity, or  a  grievous  pain,  which  will  not  be  in 
some  degree  enlightened  or  relieved  by  the  vision 
of  it,  when  the  evening  shadows  are  blue  on  its 
foundation,  and  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset  resting 
on  the  fair  height  of  its  golden  fortitude." 

These  will  suffice  as  examples  of  Ruskin's 
prose  style.  Returning  now  to  his  teaching,  to 
re-emphasize  some  of  its  features. 

It  may  be  said  that  Ruskin  was  as  notable  a 
missionary  as  ever  lived,  pleading  all  his  life,  by 
speech  and  writing,  for  the  union  of  the  true,  the 
beautiful  and  the  good ;  but  he  often  felt  that  he 
was  only  a  herald,  preparing  the  way  for  a  con- 
summation and  result  which  he  himself  would 
never  see  fulfilled.  He  once  said  to  me  that  his 
was  "the  voice  of  one  crying  in  wilderness,"  and 
that  he  could  not  even  say  that  "the  kingdom," 
of  which  he  desired  the  advent,  was  "at  hand." 
But  think  what  we  owe  to  him,  as  the  appraiser 
of  works  by  the  forgotten  dead,  the  interpreter 
and  eulogist  of  artists  disesteemed  in  the  past; 
Tintoret,  Botticelli,  Carpaccio,  Luini,  Verrocchio, 
Donatello,  and  many  another  down  to  Turner. 

[89] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

He  said  he  was  satisfied  with  appraising  the  work 
of  others,  disinterring  buried  reputations;  but 
how  did  he  teach  us  of  this  ?  As  George  Eliot 
said,  "with  the  inspiration  of  the  Hebrew  proph- 
ets." And  so,  the  dignity  of  labour,  the  bless- 
edness of  honest  toil,  were  taught  anew.  "  Work, 
work,  work;  'tis  better  than  what  you  work  to 
get,"  wrote  Mrs.  Browning,  and  Ruskin's  whole 
life  was  an  illustration  of  it.  He  was  by  far  the 
most  voluminous  and  versatile  English  writer  of 
the  nineteenth  century — and  no  one  has  done 
so  much  as  he  did  by  his  writings  to  raise  the 
tone  of  feeling  and  judgment  as  to  the  Beautiful 
within  the  Anglo-Saxon  race.  No  one  has  done 
so  much  to  shew  what  it  is,  and  where  it  is  to  be 
found;  what  fosters,  and  what  retards  it;  giv- 
ing us  almost  a  new  reading  and  commentary  on 
its  laws.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that,  from  the 
date  of  the  publication  of  Modern  Painters  on- 
ward, his  two  dicta  that  "all  great  Art  is  a  Rev- 
elation," and  that  "all  great  Art  is  Praise,"  have 
been  attested  by  results. 

Grant  that  he  occasionally  pushed  the  truths 
he  taught  too  far.  All  who  originate  new  depar- 
tures do  that.  They  cannot  help  doing  it,  and 
they  would  not  effect  a  change  in  the  current 
ideas  of  their  time  if  they  did  not  do  it,  if  they 
did  not  overstep  the  via  media,  or  juste  milieu. 
No  one  ever  starts  a  fresh  movement  without 
carrying  it  at  first  too  far;  especially  if  he  is  a 

[90] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

many-sided  genius.  Now  note  the  range  of  the 
subjects  which  Ruskin  has  studied,  and  on  which 
he  has  written  to  purpose;  philosophy,  espe- 
cially that  of  ethics,  theology,  political  economy, 
history,  architecture,  painting,  sculpture,  en- 
graving,, agriculture,  education,  sociology,  the 
sciences  of  mineralogy,  geology  and  botany, 
music,  mythology,  prosody,  criticism,  topog- 
raphy, etc.,  etc.  He  was  almost  as  encyclopedic 
as  Aristotle.  Then  note  his  varied  work  as  a 
practical  reformer.  Not  content  with  merely 
preaching  his  evangel,  he  formed  a  Society  for 
the  spread  of  these  ideas,  which  he  felt  to  be 
fundamentally  true,  and  yet  were  disesteemed. 
That  Society  he  has  helped  by  numerous  gifts. 
No  teacher  has  ever  been  so  lavish  of  gifts  to 
contemporaries,  and  to  posterity. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  many  of  his  works  will 
live  as  long  as  the  English  language  is  spoken; 
and  it  is  note-worthy  that  in  them  all,  while 
there  is  much  trenchant  criticism,  there  is  noth- 
ing selfish  or  sinister,  or  envious,  or  cruel. 
Severe  as  was  his  wrath  against  all  that  degrades 
human  nature,  he  never  wrote  a  sentence  which 
he  afterwards  regretted;  although  he  outgrew — 
and  acknowledged  that  he  outgrew — his  earlier 
opinions,  and  his  juvenile  way  of  stating  things. 
It  was  said  by  him  and  by  Matthew  Arnold 
(whom  we  may  bracket  together  in  this  respect) 
that  they  never  wrote  a  sentence  which  they 

[91] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

wished  to  hide  from  the  light  of  day,  or  desired 
the  recording  angel  to  erase.  Ruskin  once  wrote 
to  our  common  friend,  James  Smetham, "I  never 
wrote  a  private  letter  to  any  human  being  which 
I  would  not  let  a  bill-sticker  chalk  up  six  feet 
high  on  Hyde  Park  wall,  and  stand  myself  in 
Piccadilly  and  say  *I  did  it!'"  And  his  pub- 
lished letters,  multitudinous  as  they  are — in 
the  Arrows  of  the  Chase,  Hortus  Inclusus,  etc. — 
are  not  a  tithe  of  the  number  which  he  wrote. 
On  the  24th  December  1899,  I  visited  Brant- 
wood  for  the  last  time  during  Ruskin's  life,  less 
than  a  month  before  he  died.  I  hardly  expected 
to  see  him,  as  he  could  not  walk,  or  even  speak 
much;  but,  with  the  same  kindliness  he  shewed 
in  former  years,  he  asked  me  to  come  up,  and  I 
spent  some  time  in  the  delightful  turret-room,  so 
well  known  to  all  his  visitors,  whence  the  view  of 
Coniston  Lake  and  the  mountains  beyond  it  is  so 
grand.  His  favourite  birds  were  at  his  window, 
and — as  by  some  subtile  affinity — soothed  him 
by  their  presence,  and  consoled  him  by  their 
twittering  song;  while  the  gracious  silence  of  old 
age  was,  in  some  respects,  more  impressive  than 
the  many-sided  speech  of  earlier  years  had  been. 
I  was  told  to  continue  talking,  though  he  re- 
sponded little,  for  he  liked  to  listen,  when  he 
could  not  speak.  His  face,  his  most  impressive 
hands,  his  wonderful  eyes,  and  every  motion  of 
his  frame  were  expressive  beyond  measure.  I 

[92] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

knew  it  was  a  farewell  meeting,  but  there  was  no 
sorrow,  only  a  sense  of  tranquillity  and  peace. 

Three  weeks  afterward  he  had  an  attack  of 
influenza,  and  passed  from  the  land  of  the  living. 
I  went  up  to  the  funeral  at  Coniston.  So  soon 
as  I  knew  that  he  had  died,  I  sent  to  Florence 
for  a  "crown  of  wild  olive"  to  lay  upon  his  tomb. 
It  did  not  arrive  on  the  burial  day,  and  I  had  to 
content  myself  with  writing  that  motto  on  a 
sheet  of  cardboard,  along  with  "Unto  this  Last," 
which  was  laid  with  many  another  offering  on  his 
grave.  It  was  a  rainy,  wintry,  day;  Wetherlam, 
and  the  surrounding  mountains  being  all 
wreathed  with  January  mist.  The  coffin  had 
been  brought  round  from  Brantwood  on  the  pre- 
vious evening,  that  his  remains  might  lie  in  the 
church  for  twenty  hours  before  interment;  and 
those  of  us  who  arrived  early  saw  the  catafalque 
with  violets  and  lilies  of  the  valley  round  the 
head,  the  body  covered  with  wreaths  of  the  yel- 
low and  red  roses  he  loved  so  well,  and  sur- 
rounded with  many  other  decorative  winter 
flowers.  A  Westmoreland  lady-friend  sang  the 
burial  hymns;  amongst  them  one  by  Canon 
Rawnsley,  who  has  written  nothing  better  in 
verse  than  the  memorial  lines  called  forth  on  that 
occasion.  The  service  ended,  his  body  was 
borne  reverently  to  its  last  resting  place,  and 
lowered  noiselessly — "earth  to  earth,  dust  to 
dust" — in  a  sort  of  cryptic  columbarium,  its 

[93] 


SOME  19th  CENTURY  ARTISTS 

sides  lined  with  polished  stones  of  white  marble. 
It  is  close  to  the  graves  of  the  three  sisters — Mar- 
garet, Mary,  and  Susanah  Beaver, — to  whom 
we  owe  the  Frondes  A grestes  and  Hortuslnclusus. 
Year  by  year,  in  their  old  age,  when  they 
could  no  longer  visit  Brantwood,  Ruskin  used 
to  send  down  one  of  his  Turner  drawings  to  be 
kept  by  them  as  long  as  they  liked,  and  then  ex- 
changed for  another,  just  "  to  give  pleasure  to  the 
young  old  ladies  of  the  Thwaite. "  At  the  funeral 
were  many  representatives  of  those  who  owed 
so  much  to  him — working-men,  and  working- 
women,  members  of  the  guilds  and  societies  he 
had  called  into  being;  and  they  realized  at  his 
grave — as  perhaps  never  before — the  significance 
of  the  words,  "  Blessed  are  the  dead." 

Certainly,  "being  dead"  Ruskin  "yet  speak- 
eth."  He  has  spoken  many  words  that  cannot 
die,  gracious  household  words,  bringing  out  of 
his  treasury  things  new  and  old.  His  mind  and 
heart  were  ever  opulent,  populous  with  thought. 
They  were  also  marvellously  opalescent,  and 

Caught  at  every  turn 
The  colours  of  the  sun. 

Still  more  especially,  as  some  one  has  said, 
"  his  life  was  as  a  tree  planted  by  the  water-side, 
that  bringeth  forth  its  fruit  in  due  season." 

Et  folium  ejus  non  defluit, 

Et  omnia  quaecunque  faciat  prosperabuntur. 

[94] 


PLATE  XI 


Braun  Autotype 


J.  F.  MILLET,  portrait  of  himself 


PLATE  XII 


Braun  Autotype  PASSAGE   OF  THE   WILD   GEESE 


W 
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PLATE  XV 


Boston  Museum 


KNITTING  SHEPHERDESS 


PLATE  XVI 


Braun  Autotype 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE 


PLATE  XVII 


Braun  Autotype 


THE  AXGELUS   [1859] 


PLATE  XVIII 


THE   SHEPHERDESS    [1869] 


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£ 


LECTURE    FOUR 


THE    PRE-RAPHAELITE    BROTHER- 
HOOD,   ESPECIALLY    DANTE 
GABRIEL  ROSSETTI,  WITH 
REMINISCENCES. 


T  is  comparatively  easy  for 
anyone  now  to  trace  the  rise 
and  development  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  Brotherhood  of 
England.  There  are  scores  of 
books,  and  articles  in  maga- 
zines, devoted  to  it.  Only 
three  members  of  the  original  group  survive — the 
veteran  painter,  Holman  Hunt,  and  William 
Rossetti,  the  brother  of  the  artist-poet,  being 
the  most  important. 

I  think  it  may  be  of  use  to  you  if  I  outline  the 
main  features  of  the  movement.  I  believe  that 
a  succinct,  and  very  important  record  of  it  will 
yet  be  given  to  the  world  in  the  light  of  all  that 
it  has  led  to.  But  what  I  have  now  to  do  to  the 
art  students  in  Chicago  is  to  unfold  its  charac- 
teristics in  the  briefest  manner  possible.  It  was 

[95] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

a  reaction,  a  protest,  and  a  new  tendency.  There 
was  rebellion  in  its  earlier  efforts,  which  were  so 
ignorantly  dealt  with  by  those  critics  whose  judg- 
ments were  enslaved  by  tradition  and  conven- 
tionality. A  most  important  point  to  be  noted, 
however,  is  this.  It  was  not  only  an  artistic 
but  a  literary  revolt,  and  a  poetical  renaissance. 
It  was  a  new  way  of  looking  at,  of  appraising 
and  reproducing  both  Man  and  Nature,  which 
found  a  simultaneous  expression  in  all  the  de- 
partments or  sub-sections  of  the  Beautiful;  in 
Poetry,  Music,  Painting,  Sculpture,  Architecture, 
and  Decorative  Handicraft. 

Many  have  asked  a  question  which  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  answer,  Who  was  the  founder  of  the 
Brotherhood  ?  Had  it  a  single  originator  ?  or 
did  several  co-operate  in  starting  it  ?  I  think 
that  the  latter  of  the  two  suggestions  is  the  cor- 
rect one.  No  one  has  written  of  it  better,  or  so 
well  as,  Ruskin  in  his  essay  on  Pre-Raphael- 
itism,  first  published  in  1851,  eight  years  after 
the  first  volume  of  Modern  Painters  came  out; 
and  from  it  I  shall  give  you  a  brief  quotation. 

He  refers  to  the  '  'instinct  which  was  urging 
every  painter  in  Europe  at  the  same  moment  to 
his  true  duty — the  faithful  representation  of  all 
objects  of  historical  interest,  or  of  natural  beauty, 
existent  at  the  period;  representation  such  as 
might  at  once  aid  the  advance  of  the  sciences, 
and  keep  a  faithful  record  of  every  monument  of 

[96] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

past  ages,  which  was  likely  to  be  swept  away  in  the 
approaching  eras  of  revolutionary  change."  *  *  * 
He  goes  on  to  say:  "  Know  once  for  all  that  a  poet 
on  canvas  is  exactly  the  same  species  of  creature 
as  a  poet  in  song,  and  nearly  every  error  in  our 
methods  of  teaching  [Art]  will  be  done  away 
with.  For  who  among  us  now  thinks  of  bring- 
ing men  up  to  be  poets  ?  of  producing  poets  by 
any  kind  of  general  recipe  or  method  of  cultiva- 
tion ?  *  *  *  But  it  being  required  to  pro- 
duce a  poet  on  canvas,  what  is  our  way  of  setting 
to  work  ?  We  begin,  in  all  probability,  by  telling 
the  youth  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  that  Nature  is 
full  of  faults,  and  that  he  is  to  improve  her;  but 
that  Raphael  is  perfection,  and  that  the  more 
he  copies  Raphael  the  better;  that  after  much 
copying  of  Raphael,  he  is  to  try  what  he  can  do 
himself  in  a  Raphaelesque,  but  yet  original  man- 
ner; that  is  to  say  to  try  to  do  something  very 
clever,  all  out  of  his  own  head,  but  yet  this  clever 
something  is  to  be  properly  subjected  to  Raphael- 
esque rules,  is  to  have  a  principal  light  occupy- 
ing one-seventh  of  its  space,  and  a  principal 
shadow  occupying  one-third  of  the  same ;  that  no 
two  people's  heads  in  the  picture  are  to  be  turned 
the  same  way,  and  that  all  the  personages  repre- 
sented are  to  possess  ideal  beauty  of  the  highest 
order,  which  ideal  beauty  consists  partly  in  a 
Greek  outline  of  nose,  partly  in  proportions  ex- 
pressible in  decimal  fractions  between  the  lips 

[97] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

and  chin;  but  mostly  in  that  degree  of  improve- 
ment which  the  youth  of  sixteen  is  to  bestow  upon 
God's  work  in  general.  This  I  say  is  the  kind  of 
teaching  which  through  various  channels,  Royal 
Academy  lecturings,  press  criticisms,  public  en- 
thusiasm, and  not  least  by  solid  weight  of  gold, 
we  give  to  our  young  men.  And,  we  wonder  we 
have  no  painters!" 

Then  follows  a  magnificent  comparison  of  the 
work  of  two  of  the  landscape  painters  of  England. 
He  supposes  them  "  both  free  in  the  same  field  in 
a  mountain  valley.  One  sees  everything,  small 
and  large,  with  about  the  same  clearness ;  moun- 
tains and  grasshoppers  alike;  the  leaves  on  the 
branches,  the  veins  on  the  pebbles,  the  bubbles 
in  the  stream;  but  he  can  remember  nothing  and 
invent  nothing.  Patiently  he  sets  himself  to  his 
mighty  task;  abandoning  at  once  all  thought  of 
seizing  transient  effects,  or  giving  general  im- 
pression of  that  which  his  eyes  present  to  him  in 
microscopical  dissection,  he  chooses  some  small 
portion  out  of  the  infinite  scene,  and  calculates 
with  courage  the  number  of  weeks  which  must 
elapse  before  he  can  do  justice  to  the  intensity 
of  his  perceptions,  or  the  fulness  of  matter  in  his 
subject. 

"Meantime  the  other  has  been  watching  the 
change  of  the  clouds,  and  the  march  of  the  light 
along  the  mountain  sides;  he  beholds  the  entire 
scene  in  broad  soft  masses  of  true  gradation,  and 

[98] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the  very  feebleness  of  his  sight  is  in  some  sort  an 
advantage  to  him,  in  making  him  more  sensible 
of  the  aerial  mystery  of  distance,  and  hiding 
from  him  the  multitudes  of  circumstances  which 
it  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  repre- 
sent. But  there  is  not  one  change  in  the  casting 
of  the  jagged  shadows  along  the  hollows  of  the 
hills,  but  it  is  fixed  on  his  mind  forever;  not  a 
flake  of  spray  has  broken  from  the  sea  of  cloud 
about  their  bases,  but  he  has  watched  it  as  it 
melts  away,  and  could  recall  it  to  its  lost  place 
in  heaven  by  the  slightest  effort  of  his  thought. 
Not  only  so,  but  thousands  and  thousands  of 
such  images,  of  older  scenes,  remain  congre- 
gated in  his  mind,  each  mingling  in  new  associa- 
tions with  those  now  visibly  passing  before  him, 
and  these  again  confused  with  other  images 
of  his  own  ceaseless,  sleepless  imagination,  flash- 
ing by  in  sudden  troops.  Fancy  how  his  paper 
will  be  covered  with  stray  symbols  and  blots, 
and  undecipherable  shorthand;  as  for  his  sitting 
down  to  "draw  from  Nature,"  there  was  not 
one  of  the  things  which  he  wished  to  represent 
that  stayed  for  so  much  as  five  seconds  together, 
but  none  of  them  escaped  for  all  that.  They 
are  sealed  up  in  that  strange  storehouse  of  his; 
he  may  take  one  of  them  out,  perhaps,  this  day 
twenty  years,  and  paint  it  in  his  dark  room,  far 
away.  *  *  *  Grant  to  the  first  considerable  in- 
ventive power,  with  exquisite  sense  of  colour; 

[99] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

and  give  to  the  second,  in  addition  to  all  his 
other  faculties,  the  eye  of  an  eagle;  and  the  first 
is  John  Everett  Millais,  the  second  Joseph  Will- 
iam Turner." 

Farther  on  in  the  same  essay  we  read:  "To- 
wards the  close  of  last  century  among  the  various 
drawings  executed  according  to  the  quiet  manner 
of  the  time,  in  greyish  blue,  with  brown  fore- 
grounds, some  began  to  be  noticed  as  exhibiting 
rather  more  than  ordinary  diligence  and  deli- 
cacy, signed  W.  Turner.  *  *  *  Gradually  and 
cautiously  the  blues  became  mingled  with  deli- 
cate green,  and  then  with  gold;  the  browns  in  the 
foreground  became  first  more  positive,  and  then 
were  slightly  mingled  with  other  local  colours; 
while  the  touch,  which  had  at  first  been  heavy 
and  broken,  like  that  of  the  ordinary  drawing 
masters  of  the  time,  grew  more  and  more  refined 
and  expressive  until  it  lost  itself  in  a  method  of 
execution  often  too  delicate  for  the  eye  to  follow, 
rendering,  with  a  precision  before  unexampled, 
both  the  texture  and  the  form  of  every  object. 
The  style  may  be  considered  as  perfectly  formed 
about  the  year  1800,  and  it  remained  unchanged 
for  twenty  years. 

"During  that  period  the  painter  had  attempted, 
and  with  more  or  less  success  had  rendered,  ev- 
ery order  of  landscape  subject,  but  always  on  the 
same  principle,  subduing  the  colours  of  Nature 
into  a  harmony  of  which  the  key-notes  are  grey- 

[100] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

ish  green  and  brown;  pure  blue,  and  delicate 
golden  yellow  being  admitted  in  small  quantity 
as  the  lowest  and  highest  limits  of  shade  and 
light ;  and  bright  local  colours  in  extremely  small 
quantity  in  figures  and  other  minor  accessories. 
"Pictures  executed  on  such  a  system  are  not, 
properly  speaking,  works  in  colour  at  all;  they 
are  studies  of  light  and  shade,  in  which  both  the 
shade  and  the  distance  are  rendered  in  the  gen- 
eral hue  which  best  expresses  their  warmth  and 
solidity.  This  advantage  may  just  as  well  be 
taken  as  not,  in  studies  of  light  and  shadow  to  be 
executed  by  the  hand ;  but  the  use  of  two,  three, 
or  four  colors,  always  in  the  same  relations  and 
places,  does  not  in  the  least  constitute  the  work  a 
study  of  colour,  any  more  than  the  brown  en- 
gravings of  the  Liber  Studiorum;  nor  would  the 
idea  of  colour  be  in  general  more  present  to  the 
artist's  mind  when  he  was  at  work  on  one  of 
these  drawings,  than  when  he  was  using  pure 
brown  in  the  mezzotint  engraving.  But  the  idea 
of  space,  warmth,  and  freshness  being  not  suc- 
cessfully expressible  in  a  single  tint,  and  per- 
fectly expressible  by  the  admission  of  three  or 
four,  he  allows  himself  that  advantage  when  it  is 
possible,  without  in  the  least  embarrassing  him- 
self with  the  actual  colour  of  the  objects  to  be 
represented.  A  stone  in  the  foreground  might 
in  Nature  have  been  cold  grey,  but  it  will  be 
drawn  nevertheless,  of  a  rich  brown,  because  it  is 

[101] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

in  the  foreground ;  a  hill  in  the  distance  might  in 
Nature  be  purple  with  heath,  or  golden  with 
furze^  but  it  will  be  drawn,  nevertheless,  of  a  cool 
grey,  because  it  is  in  the  distance. 

"This  at  least  was  the  general  theory,  carried 
out  with  great  severity  in  many  both  of  the  draw- 
ings and  pictures  executed  by  him  during  the 
period;  in  others  more  or  less  modified  by  the 
cautious  introduction  of  colour,  as  the  painter 
felt  his  liberty  increasing ;  for  the  system  was  evi- 
dently never  considered  as  final,  or  as  anything 
more  than  a  means  of  progress;  the  conventional 
easily  manageable  colour  was  visibly  adopted, 
only  that  his  mind  might  be  at  perfect  liberty  to 
address  itself  to  the  acquirement  of  the  first  and 
most  necessary  knowledge  in  all  Art,  that  of  form. 
But  as  form,  in  landscape,  implies  vast  bulk  and 
space,  the  use  of  the  tints  which  enabled  him  best 
to  express  them  was  actually  auxiliary  to  the 
mere  drawing;  and  therefore  not  only  permissi- 
ble, but  even  necessary;  while  more  brilliant  and 
varied  tints  were  never  indulged  in,  except  when 
they  might  be  introduced  without  the  slightest 
danger  of  diverting  his  mind  from  his  principal 
object.  *  *  * 

"The  system  of  his  colour  being  thus  simpli- 
fied, he  could  address  all  the  strength  of  his  mind 
to  the  accumulation  of  facts  of  form ;  his  choice 
of  subject  and  methods  of  treatment  are  there- 
fore as  various  as  his  colour  is  simple.  No  sub- 

[102] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

ject  was  too  low  or  too  high  for  him.  *  *  * 

"What  general  feeling,  it  may  be  asked  in- 
credulously, can  forward  all  this  ?  This — the 
greatest  of  all  feelings — an  utter  forgetfulness  of 
self.  Throughout  the  whole  period  with  which 
we  are  at  present  concerned  he  appears  a  man  of 
sympathy  absolutely  infinite,  or  sympathy  so  all- 
embracing  that  I  know  nothing  but  that  of 
Shakespeare  comparable  with  it.  *  *  *  This  is 
the  root  of  his  greatness,  and  it  follows  that  this 
sympathy  must  give  him  a  subtle  power  of  ex- 
pression, even  of  the  character  of  mere  material 
things,  such  as  no  other  painter  ever  possessed." 
Ruskin  then  notes  what  he  calls  "one  other 
characteristic  of  Turner's  mind  at  this  period, 
viz.,  its  reverence  for  talent  in  others"  and  his 
consequent  modesty.  "The  chief  character- 
istic of  the  works  of  Turner's  second  period,"  he 
says,  were  "a  new  energy  inherent  in  the  mind 
of  the  painter,  diminishing  the  repose  and  exalt- 
ing the  force  and  fire  of  his  conceptions,  and  the 
presence  of  colour,  as  at  least  an  essential,  and 
often  a  principal,  element  of  design."  "I  have 
no  doubt  that  the  immediate  reasons  of  this 
change  was  the  impression  made  upon  him  by 
the  colours  of  the  continental  skies  *  *  *  . 
Every  subject  was  thenceforward  primarily  con- 
ceived in  colour." 

Ruskin  enlarges  on  Turner's  marvellous  mem- 
ory, both  as  to  form  and  colour,  its  unerring  re- 

[103] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

ports  of  past  occurrences  and  experience ;  his  be- 
ing able  to  compose  some  of  his  greatest  pictures 
from  memory,  without  a  single  glance  at  Nature. 
But  he  also  points  out  that  towards  the  close  of 
the  second,  which  was  the  central  period  of  his 
labour,  "trusting  for  ten  or  twelve  years  almost 
entirely  to  memory,  while  living  mostly  in  Lon- 
don, he  became  conventional,  and  between  1830 
and  1840  painted  many  pictures  altogether  un- 
worthy of  him.  But  he  was  not  thus  to  close  his 
career.  In  the  summer  of  1840  or  1841,  he 
undertook  another  journey  into  Switzerland. 
It  was  at  least  forty  years  since  he  had  first  seen 
the  Alps,  and  the  perfect  repose  of  his  youth  re- 
turned to  his  mind;  all  conventionality  being 
done  away  with  by  the  impression  he  received 
from  the  Alps  after  his  long  separation  from 
them."  *  *  *  He  adds  that  his  work  done  then 
and  in  following  years  "  bears  the  same  relation 
to  those  of  the  rest  of  his  life  that  the  colours  of 
sunset  do  to  those  of  the  day;  and  will  be  rec- 
ognized as  the  noblest  landscapes  ever  yet  con- 
ceived by  human  intellect.'* 

When  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  uneasy  because 
of  the  delay  that  occurred  before  he  could  be 
admitted  into  the  painting-school  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  wrote,  in  the  year  1848,  to  Ford  Mad- 
dox  Brown  to  know  if  he  could  be  received  as  a 
student  of  his,  the  first  step  in  the  formation  of 
the  Brotherhood  was  taken.  Rossetti  had  ap- 

[104] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

parently  been  impressed  by  the  cartoons  which 
Maddox  Brown  had  exhibited  at  Westminster 
Hall  four  years  previously,  and  by  others  of  his 
works,  which  seemed  to  him  more  original  than 
those  of  the  teachers  under  whom  he  would  have 
to  study  at  the  Academy.  Maddox  Brown  was 
only  a  few  years  older  than  his  correspondent. 
He  had  attained  to  no  distinction  as  yet,  and  re- 
mained outside  the  circle  of  art-success  all  his 
life.  He  was  surprised  at  the  novel  request, 
and  the  story  is  current  that  he  fancied  he  was 
being  made  the  subject  of  a  practical  joke;  and 
that,  when  he  went  to  the  house  of  his  corre- 
spondent, he  provided  himself  with  a  strong 
stick,  which  he  might  use  for  defence  if  assaulted 
unawares.  Rossetti  was  received  as  a  pupil,  and 
became  a  life-long  friend.  But  before  that  mem- 
orable meeting  he  had  got  to  know  another 
youth,  William  Holman  Hunt;  and  they  together 
soon  became  acquainted  with  a  third,  John 
Everett  Millais.  These  three  young  men  were 
the  original  members  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
Brotherhood.  Others  soon  gathered  round  this 
nucleus.  As  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  the 
founders  of  the  earlier  but  somewhat  parallel 
movement  in  Poetry  and  Letters,  had  associates 
and  co-mates  —  many  of  whom  were  ignorant  of 
the  source  of  that  "stream  of  tendency"  which 
bore  them  all  onwards  —  many  in  the  new  art- 
world  of  England  were  influenced  by  the  same 

[105] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

tide;  although  they  did  not  enter  into,  or  were 
not  enrolled  within,   the   brotherhood. 

That  brotherhood  was  moulded  to  a  very  large 
extent  by  the  time  in  which  it  arose.  Its  charac- 
teristics were  partly  due  to  the  fortunate  decay 
of  the  old  system  by  which  artists  had  pupils  in  a 
school  which  carried  on,  and  carried  out,  their 
work;  the  master  forming  the  style  of  his  pupils. 
It  was  not,  however,  by  these  temporary  masters 
that  such  men  as  Hunt  and  Millais  were  influ- 
enced, but  by  the  young  enthusiasts  who  studied 
with  them.  On  the  whole  we  must  regard  Hoi- 
man  Hunt  as  the  leader  of  the  School,  although 
not  its  founder.  As  already  said,  there  was  in 
one  sense  no  particular  founder;  but  upon  this 
point  you  should  consult  the  two  gossipy  but  fas- 
cinating volumes  by  Holman  Hunt,  in  which 
you  will  find  numerous  side-lights  as  to  the 
nature  of  the  brotherhood,  as  well  as  an  authentic 
story  of  its  origin.  It  is  also  worthy  of  note  that 
this  fraternity  was  not  a  syndicate,  or  aca- 
demic union.  Being  a  brotherhood  it  was  of 
necessity  a  transient  bond  of  union,  and  sympa- 
thetic fellowship.  Those  who  are  curious  in  the 
search  for  parallels  may  find  a  resemblance  to  it 
in  the  delightful  University  brotherhoods  estab- 
lished at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  in  England; 
such  as  that  remarkable  club  nick-named  "Old 
Mortality  "  at  Oxford,  of  which  your  new  English 
Ambassador  at  Washington,  Mr.  Bryce,  was  one 

[106] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

of  the  original  members,  along  with  the  poet 
Swinburne,  and  others;  and  that  goodly  fellow- 
ship of  "The  Apostles"  at  the  sister  University 
at  Cambridge,  which  has  been  quite  recently 
described  in  an  admirable  volume  by  Mrs.  Brook- 
field.  It  included  Tennyson,  and  his  friend  Arthur 
Hallam  (of  In  Memoriam),  Monckton  Milnes, 
afterwards  Lord  Houghton  the  friend  and  biog- 
rapher of  Keats,  Frederick  Denison  Maurice, 
and  many  another  celebrity.  But  I  go  further 
back  for  the  best  parallel  to  the  formation  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  by  a  process  of 
elective  affinity.  It  is  to  the  wondrous  friend- 
ship of  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge,  and  to  their 
superlative  work — wholly  ignored  at  the  time  by 
the  accredited  critics  of  the  hour  —  which  dated 
from  the  publication  of  Lyrical  Ballads  in  1798, 
and  gave  rise  to  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
changes  as  well  as  revivals  in  English  Lit- 
erature since  its  commencement.  It  is  in  that 
monumental,  and  as  yet  unexhausted,  literary 
revival  that  we  find  the  great  predecessor  of  the 
Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  in  English  Art. 
But  it  had  also  an  artistic  prototype  in  the  French 
literary  movement  inaugurated  by  Sainte-Beuve 
and  his  friends,  in  their  admiration  for  Victor 
Hugo  and  others.  A  group  of  young  enthusi- 
asts, scarcely  out  of  their  teens,  their  intuitions 
of  the  ideal  transcending  all  past  achievement, 
but  with  a  sure  sense  of  coming  leadership,  pro- 

[107] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

gress  and  achievement,  made  this  Brotherhood 
one  of  the  noblest  ever  formed.  It  was  an  asso- 
ciation based  on  common  aims  and  aspirations, 
on  a  return  to  Nature  and  a  loyal  following  of 
her,  escaping  from  the  bondage  of  convention, 
and  reproducing  the  actual  world,  adding  the 
new  hints  it  contained  of  the  ideal. 

Will  you  also  note  this  fact  that,  while  the 
Brotherhood  was  composed  of  a  remarkable 
group  of  men,  the  way  in  which  they  set  about 
their  work,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  con- 
viction of  their  artistic  mission  awoke  in  them, 
was  still  more  remarkable. 

Ford  Maddox  Brown  wrote  much  in  his  diary 
as  to  this.  Eg.,  "4th  September,  1847,  glancing 
over  the  pages  of  Sir  James  Mackintosh's  His- 
tory of  England  I  came  upon  a  passage  'it  is 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  English  at  this 
period  should  have  become  the  judicial  language 
of  the  century,  ennobled  as  it  had  been  by  the 
genius  of  Chaucer',  this  at  once  fixed  me.  I  im- 
mediately saw  a  vision  of  Chaucer,  reading  his 
poems  to  knights  and  ladies  fair,  to  the  King  and 
Court,  amid  air  and  sunshine."  He  at  first 
thought  of  calling  his  picture  The  Seeds  of  the 
English  Language;  and,  afterwards,  The  Seeds 
and  Fruits  of  the  English  Language.  As  an  art- 
ist who  then,  and  afterwards,  experienced  many 
of  "the  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune," 
it  is  interesting  to  record  what  he  wrote  of  it  in 

[108] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

that  year.  "Very  likely  it  may  only  add  one 
more  to  the  kicks  I  have  received  from  Fortune." 
But  "of  one  thing  she  cannot  rob  me,  the  pleas- 
ure I  have  already  extracted  —  distilled  I  may 
say  —  from  the  work  itself.  Warned  by  experi- 
ence, I  have  learned  not  to  trust  only  to  hope  for 
my  reward,  nor  consider  my  toil  as  a  sacrifice; 
but  to  value  the  pleasure,  the  pleasure  I  daily 
receive  from  working  out  a  subject  after  my  own 
heart,  a  love-offering  of  my  never  fruitless  past." 

Again  he  wrote  "ayth  December.  Thought 
of  a  subject  as  I  went  along,  Wickliff  reading  his 
translation  of  the  Bible  to  John  of  Gaunt,  Chau- 
cer and  Gower  present."  In  1854  he  wrote  in 
his  journal:  "I  began  the  background  for 
Work"  —  one  of  his  greatest  pictures  —  "in  the 
streets  of  Hampstead,  painting  them  all  day  for 
two  months,  having  spent  much  time  in  inventing 
an  apparatus."  Of  his  "Last  of  England"  — 
another  characteristic  subject,  because  of  the 
pathos  and  intense  humanity  displayed  in  the 
farewell  given  to  their  old  home  by  voyagers  to  an 
unknown  world  —  he  writes,  "This  work,  rep- 
resenting an  outdoor  scene,  without  sunlight,  I 
painted  chiefly  out  of  doors,  when  the  snow  was 
lying  on  the  ground." 

To  show  the  influence  of  literary  criticism,  or 
rather  of  literary  appraisal,  on  the  development 
of  the  work  of  the  Brotherhood  with  which  I  am 
dealing,  I  turn  to  Ruskin  first  of  all,  and  instar 

[109] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

omnium,  because  of  his  unrivalled  insight  into  the 
mannerisms,  the  triviality,  the  dreary  common- 
place, and  the  dead  traditions  of  the  past.  It  is 
a  noteworthy  fact  that  the  first  volume  of  Mod' 
ern  Painters  —  the  chief  epoch-making  book  in 
the  annals  of  Art  —  was  lent  to  Holman  Hunt  as 
a  boy,  and  by  him  handed  on  to  others,  and  that 
its  influence  over  the  Brotherhood  was  supreme. 
Its  fundamental  plea  "for  Truth  to  Nature" 
which  alone  could  lead  to  new  departures  of 
any  value,  its  protest  against  conventionalism, 
unreality,  pretence,  and  sham  of  every  kind,  did 
more  than  any  picture  did,  at  the  outset  of  the 
movement,  to  hasten  that  return  to  Nature,  which 
was  its  watchword. 

There  have  been  many  movements  in  literary 
and  philosophical,  as  well  as  artistic  work  which 
may  be  described  as  "returns  to  Nature."  But 
perhaps  the  greatest,  because  the  most  explicitly 
formulated,  was  that  of  Ruskin.  I  used  to  hear 
him  talk  of  it  with  Carlyle  at  Cheyne  Row  more 
than  thirty  years  ago;  and  I  have  tried  to  re- 
produce their  conversation  in  part.  It  would  at 
times  meander  through  meadows  of  pleasantry, 
then  burst  into  torrents  of  invective  in  such  sen- 
tences as  these: 

"Nature,  Nature,"  said  Carlyle,  "I  want  to 
get  to  Nature." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  Nature?"  replied 
Ruskin.  "I  want  to  get  back  to  it  as  I  saw  it  in 

[110] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

my  boyhood,  when  I  was  taught  by  my  father 
and  mother,"  said  Carlyle.  "What  kind  of  a 
sight  was  that,"  replied  Ruskin,  "if  you  didn't 
see  that  Nature  reveals  the  supernatural;  as  the 
whole  history  of  Christendom  has  been  disclos- 
ing a  divine  within  the  human,  as  its  inmost 
pulse."  "Ah,  well,  ah,  well,"  said  Carlyle, 
"perhaps  you  are  right.  I  do  not  know;  for,  as 
one  of  our  poets  has  said,  'all  my  mind  is  troubled 
with  a  doubt.' ' '  "  But,"  said  Ruskin,  "what  is  to 
to  be  the  end  and  outcome  of  all  our  present  tur- 
moil?" "I  don't  know,"  said  Carlyle;  "no 
man  knows.  But  I  am  sure  of  this,  the  real  will 
survive."  "Yes,"  said  Ruskin,  "but  in  what 
form  and  of  what  kind  ?  The  real  has  many 
aspects,  and  many  counterfeits."  "Well,  well," 
said  Carlyle,  "we  must  wait,  and  I  am  sure  that 
the  best  of  everything  in  this  world  will  live,  even 
if  some  of  our  wisdom  grows  out  of  the  root  of 
the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil." 

But  for  the  work  and  influence  of  this  brother- 
hood England  would  not  have  known  many  an- 
other artist  who  was  taught  by  it,  and  yet  did 
not  belong  to  it  by  any  outward  tie  of  affinity, 
above  all,  Frederick  Walker. 

But  note  this,  that  the  Society  —  which  was 
never  broken  up,  but  which  (like  all  societies 
subsequent)  dissolved  by  necessity  —  was  the 
parent  of  many  artistic  tendencies.  Millais 
broke  away  into  a  magnificent  idealised  neo- 

[111] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

realism;  Rossetti  on  the  other  side  into  a  still 
more  magnificent  realistic  neo-idealism.  Of  still 
living  members  of  the  Brotherhood  I  do  not 
speak;  although  in  the  one  who  remains  pre- 
eminent there  is  much  of  both  of  these  tenden- 
cies wondrously  united,  in  his  last  reproduction 
of  an  early  effort,  which  will  probably  go  down 
to  posterity,  as  his  greatest  work.  I  refer  to 
Holman  Hunt's  Lady  of  Shallott. 

The  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  was  a  means 
to  an  end;  not  a  stepping-stone  across  a  stream; 
but  one  in  the  sense  in  which  Tennyson  wrote, 
that 

Men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 

Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

Rossetti,  Woolner,  Maddox  Brown,  Millais, 
subsequently  left  it,  on  the  ground  that,  hav- 
ing assimilated  its  best,  they  had  outgrown  it, 
and  were  able  to  go  on  to  other  things;  some 
more  slowly,  others  more  swiftly;  but  it  remained 
to  all  of  them  a  landmark,  as  it  had  been  a  rally- 
ing point  to  them  as  youthful  enthusiasts  and 
devotees.  They  soon  saw  the  inadequacy  of  the 
term  which  had  been  taken  to  describe  their 
brotherhood,  but  it  was  not  discarded,  or  dis- 
owned. 

The  wistful  retrospective  gaze  of  the  found- 
ers, who  saw  in  those  early  painters  who  pre- 
ceded Raphael  the  everlasting  merits  of  sincer- 
ity, of  truthfulness,  and  a  face-to-face  vision  of 

[112] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

Nature,  as  well  as  a  direct  and  generally  true 
reproduction  of  what  they  saw,  was  an  unspeak- 
able gain  to  the  art  of  England,  to  the  century  in 
which  they  lived,  and  which  they  adorned.  When 
the  leaders  outgrew  their  early  cult,  without  feel- 
ing its  poverty  or  ignoring  its  trammels,  the 
average  public  mind  was  enabled  to  rise  above 
contemporary  hindrance,  and  to  see  visions  of 
a  higher  ideality  than  the  nation  had  previously 
known. 

THE  JOURNAL  OF  THE   PRE-RAPHAELITE 
BROTHERHOOD 

In  this  Journal,  kept  by  its  literary  member, 
William  Michael  Rossetti,  from  1849  to  1853, 
and  edited  by  him  in  1900,  we  have  the  most 
authentic  record,  although  not  the  most  graphic 
picture,  of  the  work  the  Pre-Raphaelites  did. 
The  secretary  writes: 

"In  1848  there  were  four  young  students  in 
the  Royal  Academy  Schools,  John  Everett  Mil- 
lais  and  William  Holman  Hunt  in  the  Life- 
School,  Thomas  Woolner  in  the  Sculpture- 
School,  and  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  in  the 
Antique-School.  Woolner,  born  in  1825,  was 
the  eldest;  Millais,  born  in  1829,  tne  youngest. 
These  young  men  were  all  capable  and  ambi- 
tious; they  had  all,  except  Rossetti,  exhibited 
something,  to  which  (more  especially  in  the  case 
of  Millais)  the  Art  authorities  and  the  public 
had  proved  not  wholly  indifferent.  They  enter- 

[113] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

tained  a  hearty  contempt  for  much  of  the  Art — 
flimsy,  frivolous,  and  conventional  —  which  they 
saw  in  practice  around  them;  and  they  wanted 
to  shew  what  was  in  them  in  the  way  of  solid  and 
fresh  thought  or  invention,  personal  observation, 
and  the  intimate  study  of,  and  strict  observance 
to  Nature.  The  young  men  came  together, 
interchanged  ideas,  and  were  joined  by  two 
other  youthful  painter-students,  James  Collin- 
son  and  Frederick  George  Stephens,  and  also 
myself,  who  was  not  an  artist.  So  there  were 
seven  men  forming  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brother- 
hood. *  *  *  There  was  not  much  defiance  in  it, 
some  banter,  some  sense,  a  great  deal  of  resolute 
purpose,  a  large  opening  for  misrepresentations, 
and  a  carte-blanche  invitation  for  abuse.  After 
thus  constituting  themselves,  what  they  had  to 
do  was  to  design,  paint,  and  model,  and  one  of 
them  in  especial,  Dante  Rossetti,  to  write  poetry ; 
and  they  did  it  with  a  will. 

Some  little  while  having  elapsed,  it  was  deter- 
mined that  one  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brothers 
should  be  Secretary,  and  should  keep  a  Journal; 
and  I,  as  not  being  taken  up  by  art-work,  was 
pitched  upon  for  the  purpose.  I  accordingly 
began  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brotherhood  Journal. 

This  Journal  was  entirely  my  own  affair,  and 
was  compiled  without  pre-consulting  any  of  my 
fellow-members,  and  without  afterwards  sub- 
mitting it  to  them.  *  *  *  It  was  not  in  any 

[114] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

sense  a  diary  personal  to  myself,  and  was  pro- 
ducible to  any  member  who  might  choose  to 
ask  for  it.  I  don't  think  anyone  ever  did.  *  *  * 
The  extracts  here  presented  are  something 
like  a  half  of  the  extant  MS.  It  is  a  highly 
authentic  account  of  the  early  stages  in  a  move- 
ment which  proved  of  great  importance." 

^c  >jc  sj:  %  H5 

The  following  is  a  sample  of  the  contents  of 
this  Journal. 

"Sunday,  2Oth  May,  1849.  *  *  *  Woolner 
came  in  the  evening  and  shewed  us  two  verses  of 
a  new  Song  he  has  begun  (the  first  beginning  of 
My  Beautiful  Lady).  *  *  * 

"Monday,  2ist.  *  *  *  Gabriel  recited  lots  of 
Patmore,  Browning,  Mrs.  Browning,  etc.  *  *  * 

"23rd,  Millais  said  he  had  thoughts  of  paint- 
ing a  hedge  (as  a  subject)  to  the  closest  point  of 
imitation,  with  a  bird's  nest  —  a  thing  which  has 
never  been  attempted.  Another  subject  he  has 
in  his  eye  is  a  river  sparrow's  nest,  built  (as  he 
says  they  are)  between  three  reeds."  *  *  * 

'July  i4th.  A  contemplated  Magazine  dis- 
cussed (that  afterwards  issued  as  The  Germ). 
The  title  first  suggested,  Monthly  Thoughts  in 
Literature  and  Art.  Other  titles  thought  of 
were  The  Seed,  The  Scroll,  The  Artist,  Art  and 
Poetry. 

"Nov.  22nd.  *  *  *  Patmore  said  that  Ten- 
nyson is  the  greatest  man  he  ever  came  in  contact 

[115] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

with,  far  greater  in  his  life  than  in  his  writing, 
perfectly  sincere  and  frank,  never  paying  uncan- 
did  compliments.  Browning  takes  more  pains 
to  please  and  is  altogether  much  more  a  man  of 
the  world.  Patmore  thinks  that  Browning  does 
not  value  himself  so  highly  as  he  is  rated  by 
Gabriel  and  me." 

"Dec.  8th.  Gabriel  read  The  Princess 
through,  and  both  Woolner  and  he  pronounced 
it  the  finest  poem  since  Shakespeare,  superior 
even  to  Sordello.  To  this  I  demur/' 

"Tuesday  i8th.  Tennyson's  poem  of  King 
Arthur  is  not  yet  commenced,  though  he  has 
been  for  years  past  maturing  the  conception  of 
it;  and  he  intends  that  it  should  occupy  him 
some  fifteen  years."  *  *  * 

"Feb.  26th,  1850.  *  *  *  Marston  says  that 
Browning,  before  publishing  Sordello,  sent  it  to 
him  to  read,  saying  that  this  time,  at  any  rate, 
the  public  should  not  accuse  him  of  being  unin- 
telligible! 

"Sunday  gth  March,  1851.  We  voted  to 
keep,  under  the  same  obligation  as  a  Pre-Raph- 
aelite Brotherhood  meeting,  the  birthday  of 
Shakespeare. 

"May  1 3th.  Ruskin's  explanation  of  the 
name  'Pre-Raphaelite'  is  very  sensible. 

"  'They  intend  to  return  to  early  days  in  this 
point  only;  that,  as  far  as  in  them  lies,  they  will 
draw  either  what  they  see,  or  what  they  suppose 

[116] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

might  have  been  the  actual  facts  of  the  scene  they 
desire  to  represent,  irrespective  of  any  conven- 
tional rules  of  picture-making;  and  they  have 
chosen  their  name  because  all  artists  did  this 
before  Raphael's  time  —  and  after  Raphael's 
time  they  did  not  this,  but  sought  to  paint  fair 
pictures  rather  than  represent  stern  facts;  of 
which  the  consequence  has  been  that,  from 
Raphael's  time  to  this  day,  historical  art  has 
been  in  decadence.'  *  *  *  "Carlyle  the  other 
night,  in  talking  with  Woolner,  was  speaking  of 
Alfred  (as  he  calls  Tennyson)  and  Browning  in 
reference  to  their  embodying  their  thoughts  in 
verse,  when  there  is  so  great  need  of  doing  things 
in  the  directest  way  possible.  'Alfred,'  he  said, 
'knows  how  to  jingle,  but  Browning  does  not.' 
He  spoke,  however,  of  Browning's  intellect  in 
the  highest  terms.  He  then  referred  to  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  Brotherhood:  'These  Pre-Raphael- 
ites  they  talk  of  are  said  to  copy  the  thing  as  it 
is,  or  invent  it  as  they  believe  it  must  have  been: 
now  there's  some  sense,  and  hearty  sincerity, 
in  this.  It's  the  only  way  of  doing  anything  fit 
to  be  seen.' J  So  much  for  a  sample  of  the 
entries  in  this  Journal. 


[117] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

DANTE    GABRIEL    ROSSETTI. 

ONLY  once  had  I  a  long  conversation 
with  Rossetti,  but  it  was  significant  in 
many  ways.  I  had  spent  a  part  of 
the  fourth  of  May  in  the  year,  1871, 
with  Thomas  Carlyle  in  Cheyne  Row,  when 
he  talked  much  of  Ruskin  and  Pre-Raphaelites; 
and  I  went  down  afterwards  to  No.  16  Cheyne 
Walk,  to  see  Rossetti,  an  illustrious  member  of  the 
group.  The  house  is  now  much  changed.  You 
then  entered  it  from  the  river  side,  with  many 
of  the  antique  boats  or  barges  visible.  No  one 
who  ever  went  in  through  the  old  iron  gateway 
can  possibly  forget  it.  It  was  "The  Queen's 
House,"  traditionally  that  of  Catherine  of  Bra- 
ganza,the  ill-fated  bride  of  our  Charles  II,  whose 
initials  (C.  R.)  remained  in  1862,  on  the  twisted 
iron  lettering  of  its  seventeenth  century  back- 
garden  rails.  The  house,  with  its  wainscot 
rooms,  its  spiral  staircase,  its  windows  and  door- 
ways, was  said  to  have  been  the  work  of  our 
architect  Christopher  Wren.  The  garden,  too,  into 
which  I  went,  a  relic  of  the  royal  palace-garden, 
had  some  fine  lime  trees  in  it.  The  dining- 
room  had  several  mirrors,  and  old  pictures  on 
the  walls,  with  curious  designs,  "flower,  fruit, 
and  thorn-pieces.'*  The  house  had  a  strange 
history,  with  many  other  literary  abodes  quite  near 
it.  At  number  4,  both  Daniel  Maclise,  the  painter, 
and  George  Eliot,  the  novelist,  lived  and  died. 

[118] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Sir  Thomas  Moore,  George  Herbert,  Smollet, 
Izaak  Walton,  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  John  Locke, 
Turner,  Carlyle,  the  Kingsleys,  George  Mac- 
Donald,  etc.,  all  had  lived  near  at  hand. 

In  this  year,  1871,  John  Everett  Millais 
painted  a  somewhat  remarkable  picture,  which 
was  hung  on  the  line  in  the  Royal  Academy,  and 
fascinated  most  beholders  from  its  consummate 
realism.  I  forget  the  exact  title,  but  it  repre- 
sented three  daughters  of  a  Mr.  Armstrong,  mag- 
nificently dressed,  and  playing  whist  within  an 
azalea  bower  on  a  summer  forenoon.  It  was  a 
splendid  specimen  of  Millais's  colour.  When 
Rossetti  began  to  talk  of  Art  we  passed  from  the 
"Holy  Families"  of  the  past — in  which  he  took 
the  greatest  interest — to  discuss  our  modern  Eng- 
lish work;  and  I  spoke  of  this  picture,  I  fear  with 
the  erratic  impulse  of  youth,  for  I  think  I  charac- 
terized it  as  "the  incarnation  of  nineteenth 
century  worldliness."  Three  beautiful  English 
girls  devoting  a  forenoon  to  whist  in  a  gorgeous 
azalea  bower!  What  a  revelation  it  was  of 
tendencies  astir!  Rossetti  listened  to  what  I 
said;  and  then,  in  a  grave  staccato  style,  replied: 
"Why  do  you  speak  in  that  way  of  my  old 
friend's  work?  It  is  not  his  fault  that  this  age 
is  a  materialistic  one.  He  finds  it  as  God  has 
permitted  it  to  be,  and  it  is  my  friend's  choice 
to  paint  it  as  it  now  is."  I  ventured  to  say 
that  I  did  not  think  that  the  noblest  kind  of 

[119] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

work  to  do;  that  the  greatest  artists  of  the  past 
invariably  tried  to  lift  up  their  age,  and  all 
that  was  in  it,  to  higher  levels;  and  that 
it  was  both  vulgar,  and  dishonouring  to  Art,  to 
paint  such  realistic  pictures.  He  answered: 
"I  fear  we  shall  not  agree  on  that  point;  we 
should  all  be  both  realists  and  idealists.  But, 
will  you  come  out  with  your  friend  into  my  gar- 
den, and  see  what  is  to  be  seen  there  ?"  So  out 
we  went,  and  spent  some  time  in  that  curious 
place  where  he  had  collected  so  many  strange 
animals. 

The  impression  he  made  on  me  on  this  first 
visit  remained  ever  afterwards,  viz.,  that  his 
genius  was  far  more  idealistic  than  he  himself 
knew;  and  yet  that  he  was  a  solitary  man,  almost 
an  alien  in  the  artistic  fraternity  of  England. 

As  to  his  personal  character,  all  that  I  saw  of 
him  revealed  a  most  chivalrous,  sympathetic, 
honourable  man,  generous  and  just,  and  equally 
appreciative  of  his  contemporaries  as  of  his 
great  predecessors  in  the  twin  regions  of  Art  and 
Poetry.  There  was  a  temperamental  intensity 
in  him,  which  struggled  to  express  itself  both  in 
Song,  and  in  plastic  Art;  and  I  think  that  he  was 
at  times  somewhat  embarrassed  by  his  own  rich 
outpourings. 

There  was  a  vagueness,  a  wistfulness,  and 
a  dreamy  languor,  in  much  of  his  early  work. 
He  lived  in  a  world  of  ideality;  and  "  folio  wed 

[120] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

the  gleam,"  as  Tennyson  puts  it,  to  the  very  end. 
He  was  no  copyist,  or  imitator  of  reality,  not  an 
artistic  photographer;  but,  bringing  the  light  of 
the  ideal  into  all  that  he  saw  of  the  real,  in  that 
glorious  atmosphere  his  pictures  were  made,  and 
etherialised.  I  think,  he  always  strove  after  the 
ideal;  caring  little  for  the  actual.  And  yet  he  was 
so  natural,  so  true  to  Nature  at  its  highest,  that 
in  him  the  two  tendencies,  were  superlatively 
combined. 

In  speaking  of  RossettPs  house  and  garden  I 
should  have  mentioned  his  curious  fondness  for 
strange  or  slightly-known  animals.  He  brought 
them  to  his  house,  placed  them  in  cages,  and  gave 
them  at  the  same  time  the  run  of  his  garden; 
whence,  they  often  strayed  into  neighbouring 
ones.  He  had  owls  and  hedge-pigs,  wombats, 
dormice,  kangaroos,  armadillos,  marmots,  squir- 
rels, peacocks,  parrots,  jackdaws,  lizards,  and 
even  a  zebu!  It  was  an  extraordinary  collection 
of  nondescripts,  and  revealed  an  eccentricity  in 
his  own  character. 

To  understand  Rossetti  aright  it  should  be  re- 
membered that  he  was,  in  a  sense,  an  alien  in 
England;  not  by  birth,  but  by  inheritance.  He 
was  a  man  of  Tuscan  blood,  who  brought  into 
our  English  land  some  of  the  best  elements  of  the 
Italian  race.  If  you  read  the  record  of  his  life, 
you  will  see  that  he  inherited  the  religious  spirit 
of  that  race,  with  the  insight  which  sees  beyond 

[121] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

symbols  to  that  which  they  shadow  forth.  And 
then,  with  his  gracious  inheritance  on  both  the 
father's  and  the  mother's  side,  he  was  sur- 
rounded in  his  London  home  by  genial  influences 
which  set  him  free  from  many  a  tradition,  and 
from  the  trammels  of  conventionality. 

Hear  how  Ruskin  writes  of  him:  "I  believe 
his  name  should  be  placed  first  on  the  list  of 
men,  within  my  own  range  of  knowledge,  who 
have  raised  and  changed  the  spirit  of  modern 
Art;  raised  it,  in  absolute  attainment;  changed 
it,  in  direction  of  temper.  Rossetti  added  to  the 
before  accepted  systems  of  colour  in  painting, 
one  based  on  the  principles  of  manuscript  illumi- 
nation, which  permits  his  designs  to  rival  the 
most  beautiful  qualities  of  painted  glass,  without 
losing  either  the  mystery  or  the  dignity  of  light 
and  shade.  And  he  was,  as  I  believe  it  is  now 
generally  admitted,  the  chief  intellectual  force  in 
the  establishment  of  the  modern  romantic  school 
in  England." 

I  must  add  that  the  intensity  of  Rossetti's 
feelings  and  his  passionate  subjectivity,  drawn 
out  by  the  very  splendour  of  his  imagination, 
gave  a  certain  sadness  and  pathos  to  his  Art. 
His  temperament  was  perfervid,  and  he  never 
escaped  from  the  circle  of  his  own  subjectivity. 
Hence  there  was  no  externalisation  of  his  in- 
sight, in  objective  art-products.  He  attained, 
as  all  the  world  knows,  to  wonderful  mastery 

[122] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

as  a  colourist;  but,  as  to  form,  he  kept  to  one 
type — especially  one  type  of  female  beauty  - 
based  on  that  of  the  lady  who  became  his  wife ; 
and  his  individuality  came  out  in  his  continuous 
portrayal  of  that  face,  perhaps  more  than  in  the 
case  of  any  of  his  contemporaries,  Burne- Jones 
only  excepted. 

What  he  did  to  familiarize  his  age  with  the 
work  of  some  almost  forgotten  poets,  such  as 
Omar  Khyam  of  Persia,  and  our  own  Blake,  is 
too  well  known  to  require  mention  here.  And 
now  I  only  add  that  when  we  talked  of  the  poets 
and  the  artists  of  the  past  and  present,  there 
was — in  every  sentence  he  uttered — brightness, 
and  sympathetic  insight,  no  moroseness,  or 
egotism,  or  vanity  on  his  part. 

HOLMAN    HUNT. 

OF  Holman  Hunt,  Ruskin  says  in  his  Art 
of  England,  when  comparing  him  with 
Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti :    "  In  all  living 
schools  it  chances  often  that  the  disci- 
ple is  greater  than  his  master;  and  it  is  always  the 
first  sign  of  a  dominant  and  splendid  intellect,  that 
it  knows  of  whom  to  learn."    *  *    *    He  speaks 
of  Rossetti's  "sternly  materialistic  but  deeply  rev- 
erent veracity,"  in  painting  the  life  of  Christ;  but 
in  Holman  Hunt's  Light  of  the  World  we  have 
such  "spiritual  passion"  that  that  life  became 
"the  greatest  of  Realities,  the  only  reality,  so  that 

[123] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

there  is  nothing  in  the  earth  for  him  that  does  not 
speak  of  it."  Ruskin  finds  in  Hunt  a  new  "re- 
spect for  physical  and  material  truth;"  and  while 
RossettPs  light  was  "sunshine  diffused  through 
coloured  glass,"  Hunt,  as  a  colourist,  gives  us 
"actual  sunshine  growing  leafage,  living  rock, 
heavenly  cloud."  Referring  to  his  picture  of 
The  Strayed  Sheep,  he  says:  "Claude's  sun- 
shine is  colourless,  only  the  golden  haze  of  a 
quiet  afternoon."  But,  when  we  see  "the  pure 
natural  green,  and  tufted  gold  of  the  herbage  in 
the  hollow  of  the  little  sea-cliff" — where  the 
sheep  have  strayed — "the  pure  sunshine  on  a 
bank  of  living  grass,"  we  are  "soothed  by  it 
and  raised  into  such  peace  as  we  are  intended 
to  find  in  the  glory  and  stillness  of  summer,  pos- 
sessing all  things."  He  thinks  that  picture  was 
"the  first  that  cast  true  sunshine  on  the  grass." 

Ruskin  goes  on  to  comment  on  Holman  Hunt's 
conception  of  the  Flight  into  Egypt,  and  to  com- 
pare it  with  "former  conceptions,  in  which  the 
Holy  Family  were  always  represented  as  watched 
over  and  ministered  to  by  attendant  angels. 
But  only  the  safety  and  peace  of  the  Divine  Child 
and  its  Mother,  are  thought  of.  No  sadness,  or 
wonder  of  meditation,  returns  to  the  desolate 
homes  of  Bethlehem.  But  in  this  English  pic- 
ture all  the  story  of  the  escape  as  of  the  flight,  is 
told  in  fulness  of  peace,  and  yet  of  compassion. 
The  travel  is  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  the  way 

[124] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

unseen  and  unknown;  but,  partly  stooping  from 
the  starlight,  and  partly  floating  with  the  desert 
mirage,  move  with  the  Holy  Family  the  glorified 
souls  of  the  Innocents.  Clear  in  celestial  light, 
and  gathered  into  child-garlands  of  gladness, 
they  look  to  the  Child  in  whom  they  live;  while 
water  of  the  river  of  life  flows  before  them  on  the 
sands."  Ruskin  thought  that  "none  of  the 
groups  and  processions  of  children  in  the  love- 
liest sculpture  of  the  Robbia's  and  Donatello's 
can  more  than  rival  the  freedom  and  felicity  of 
motion  in  the  happy  wreaths  of.  these  angel- 
children." 


[125] 


PLATE  XX 


DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI 


PLATE  XXI 


ECCE  AXCILLA  DOMINI 


PLATE  XXII 


"BEATA  BEATRIX" 
From   the  painting  in    the  Art   Institute,   Chicago 


PLATE  XXIII 


Photograph   by  F.   Hollycr 


"AUREA   CATENA" 


PLATE  XXV 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollycr 


LA  DONNA  DELL  A  FIXESTRA 


en 

O 


PLATE  XXVII 


PLATE  XXVIII 


CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI  AND  HER  MOTHER 


PLATE  XXIX 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer      GIRLHOOD  OF  THE  VIRGIN  MARY 


PLATE  XXX 


FORD  MADOX  BROWN 


LECTURE    FIFTH 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS. 

JINCE  Ruskin  died,  no  person- 
ality so  rare  as  that  of  George 
Frederick  Watts  has  left  us. 

In  the  following  pages  remi- 
niscences of  his  conversation 
are  inwoven  with  an  estimate 

of  the  artist  and  the  man. 

In  conversation  he  often  enlarged  on  the 
teaching  functions  of  Art,  and  on  all  the  great 
artists  —  from  Phidias  to  Michael  Angelo,  from 
Giotto  to  Raphael  —  as  teachers  of  their  time. 
He  said  he  thought  that  Art  had  greater  things  to 
do  in  years  to  come  than  it  had  yet  accomplished. 
He  believed  in  the  splendid  possibilities  before 
Humanity  in  this  domain,  as  in  all  others  open 
to  it;  but  the  pathways  men  must  take  to  realise 
them  were  slow  and  patient  labour  day  by  day, 
integrity,  hard  work,  self-sacrifice,  fixity  of  aim, 
and  joy  in  work.  "He  was  not  sure  that  we  in 
England"  (he  referred,  he  said,  to  the  average 

[127] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

middle-class,  and  those  just  below  them)  "had 
the  same  love  of  beauty  as  the  Italians  of  the 
same  class  had,  or  that  we  were  amenable  to  it  in 
the  same  way.  He  did  not  think  that  the  English 
were  a  decadent  race;  but  this  great  and  won- 
drous nation  of  ours  had  lived  through  much, 
accomplishing  much,  and  possibly  it  was  near 
its  meridian,  if  it  had  not  already  passed  it.  All 
nations  had  their  rise,  decline,  and  fall ;  and  how 
many  nations  have  vanished,  in  Egypt,  Greece, 
Carthage,  etc."  The  "increasing  purpose"  of 
the  ages  was  referred  to,  but  he  replied,  "Yes  I 
believe  in  it;  but  that  purpose  is  quite  consistent 
with  the  loss  of  particular,  and  especially  of  in- 
sular, civilisations.  The  decay  of  nations  was  a 
sad  but  perhaps  a  necessary  fact,  connected  with 
the  rise  of  new  elements,  and  types  of  greatness. 
In  our  time  there  was  a  want  of  the  heroic  (and 
yet  we  had  many  heroes,  especially  in  humble 
life),  the  refined,  the  self-abnegating,  and  also  of 
the  'high  seriousness/  which  Matthew  Arnold 
longed  for.  There  was  too  much  scramble,  and 
opinionativeness ;  and  far  too  great  a  love  of 
money,  and  of  ease."  He  denounced  the  wor- 
ship of  athletics,  the  craze  for  sports,  accom- 
panied by  betting.  "Many  young  children  are 
precocious  in  evil.  It  is  sad  to  see  them  smok- 
ing cigarettes;  and  the  want  of  decorous  living  is 
lamentable.  Vulgarity  is  rampant,  and  there 
is  a  change,  not  always  for  the  better,  passing 

[128] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

over  the  press  of  the  country.  It  is  a  degrada- 
tion to  useful  newspapers  to  admit  vulgar  adver- 
tisements into  their  columns.  Old  industries, 
alas!  are  vanishing,  especially  in  the  rural  dis- 
tricts of  England,  and  in  the  Highlands  of  Scot- 
land. 

Nevertheless  the  world  is  advancing.  Evo- 
lution is  a  continuous  process,  and  better  things 
are  in  store  for  man  than  he  has  ever  known. 
The  passing  away  of  old  usages  is  inevitable;  but 
I  am  glad  to  see  that  in  Scotland  your  university 
students  keep  up  their  torchlight  processions, 
when  a  new  Lord  Rector  is  installed.  I  wish 
they  could  wear  coats  of  mail  on  these  occa- 
sions! " 

He  spoke  of  the  vast  influence  of  school  teach- 
ing in  forming  the  character  of  a  nation.  The 
teaching  of  Languages  and  of  History  was  most 
beneficial;  but  he  wished  there  was  more  Art- 
teaching  in  schools,  from  the  humblest  elemen- 
tary one,  up  to  Eton  and  the  rest.  He  re- 
ferred to  the  good  work  that  was  unconsciously 
done  in  other  directions,  in  the  course  of  Art 
teaching  at  school,  by  encouraging  the  chil- 
dren of  peasant  labourers  to  draw,  paint,  carve, 
mould,  and  design.  Perhaps  the  best  teaching 
of  all  was  obtained  by  the  daily  sight  in  school, 
or  on  the  walls  of  cottage  homes,  of  authentic 
pictures  of  monumental  men  and  women. 

Referring  to  contemporary  affairs  he  spoke 
[129] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

with  enthusiasm  of  Queen  Victoria,  but  added 
that  she  should  have  gone  to  Ireland  every  year ; 
for  by  so  doing  she  would  have  won  the  hearts  of 
the  Irish  people,  as  much  as  she  had  captivated 
the  Scots.  Also,  she  left  the  Prince  of  Wales 
too  long  out  of  touch  with  his  coming  sphere  of 
influence.  She  might  have  delegated  some  work 
to  him  to  do  in  connection  with  the  State. 

He  enlarged  on  what  we  owe  to  the  Irish 
race,  and  to  our  Irish  inheritance.  It  had  done 
much  for  the  nation  in  literature  and  in  war. 
While  he  liked  the  Scottish  translations  from  the 
Gaelic,  he  liked  the  Irish  ones  better.  This  led 
him  to  speak  of  England's  frequent  injustices 
to  Ireland,  which  had  no  doubt  fostered  democ- 
racy. If  the  democratic  tide  was  flowing  strong- 
ly, he  did  not  wonder  at  it  for,  if  we  went  back 
to  the  origin  of  property,  we  would  find  that 
many  of  the  ancestors  of  our  nobility  came  to 
their  estates  through  conquest  or  seizure.  The 
true  condition  of  ownership  was  service. 

Watts's  appreciation  of  contemporary  artists 
was  great,  often  enthusiastic;  especially  of 
Burne- Jones,  Rossetti,  Millais,  and  Leighton, 
but  also  of  others;  and  I  mention  those  whom  I 
have  heard  him  praise  especially — Holman  Hunt, 
Fred.  Walker,  Legros,  Lady  Waterford,  Mason, 
Pinwell,  Whistler.  Of  a  still  living  artist,  whom 
I  may  not  name,  he  said,  "His  portraits  are 
as  good  as  those  of  Vandyke  or  Velasquez. 

[130] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

His  directness  and  suggestion  are  quite  as  great 
as  theirs."  Most  of  his  friends  can  recall  words 
of  eulogy  spoken  of  his  contemporaries,  but 
amongst  them  all  his  appreciation  of  Burn e- Jones 
was  probably  the  keenest.  I  remember  meet- 
ing him  at  an  exhibition  of  his  friend's  pictures 
in  the  New  Gallery,  shortly  after  that  friend's 
death,  one  day  on  my  return  from  a  Christmas 
visit  to  Rome.  He  asked  me:  "Where  have 
you  come  from,  and  what  have  you  seen  ?" 
When  told,  he  said,  with  a  majestic  wave  of  his 
hand  round  the  room  in  which  we  stood:  "Well, 
in  all  Rome  you  saw  nothing  finer  than  this, 
nothing  finer  than  this.1' 

As  a  many-sided  talker  he  had  scarce  a  rival  in 
our  time.  As  a  conversationalist  his  power  was 
greater  than  Ruskin's,  while  his  artistic  insight 
was  equal  to  that  of  his  friend,  and  his  criticism 
surer-footed.  It  had  no  fads,  and  was  buttressed 
round  about  by  a  wider  culture  in  other  direc- 
tions. The  happy  way  in  which  he  brought  in 
his  parallels  and  contrasts  in  conversation  was 
very  striking;  e.  g.,  speaking  of  Lord  Kitchener's 
achievements  as  a  commander,  he  said:  "Could 
Wellington  have  done  better  than  he  did,  or  even 
so  well?"  Referring  to  the  wife  of  one  of  our 
peers,  herself  of  noble  birth,  and  describing  the 
way  in  which  she  entered  a  room,  he  exclaimed: 
"Pallas  Athena  wasn't  in  it." 

Much  could  be  said  as  to  the  authors,  and  the 
[131] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

books,  he  loved  best;  Homer,  the  Decameron, 
Dante,  Shakespeare,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  etc. ;  above 
all,  the  Jewish  and  Christian  Scriptures.  He 
spoke  to  me  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm  of  Mr. 
Claude  Montefiore's  Bible  for  Home  Reading. 

As  an  artist  Watts  had  a  large  and  many-sided 
inheritance,  and  many  types  of  excellence  lived 
again  in  him.  To  a  certain  extent  the  spirit  of 
Phidias,  as  well  as  that  of  Michael  Angelo,  was 
in  him.  So  was  that  of  Giotto,  of  Carpaccio, 
and  John  Bellini,  of  Da  Vinci  and  Raphael,  of 
Titian  and  Tintoretto.  He  was  the  successor 
of  them  all,  the  continuator  of  their  work,  their 
heir  in  the  legacy  of  genius.  Hence  his  amazing 
versatility.  He  so  imbibed  their  spirit  as  to  re- 
produce it  in  oil  painting,  in  fresco,  in  sculpture, 
and  as  designer  in  metal.  And  yet  he  had  no 
master  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term.  "I 
followed  no  influence,'*  he  said,  "even  in  youth." 
And  if  he  called  no  man  master,  he  did  not  found 
a  school.  As  Wordsworth  said  of  Milton: 

His  soul  was  like  a  star,  and  dwelt  apart, 

But  the  most  distinctive  feature  of  his  genius 
was  its  idealism.  To  begin  with,  he  dispensed 
with  realistic  models.  He  elaborated  subjects, 
which  he  first  saw  with  the  "inward  eye,"  before 
he  wrought  them  out  externally  on  canvas,  doing 
this  with  an  originality  and  directness  that  were 
all  his  own.  He  said,  "I  paint  ideas,  not  ob- 

[132] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

jects;"  but  by  that  he  did  not  mean  that  he  ig- 
nored the  real.  His  pathway  to  reality  was  con- 
structed, and  carried  out,  along  ideal  lines.  In 
an  ever-memorable  sentence  he  wrote:  "My 
intention  has  not  been  so  much  to  paint  pictures 
that  will  charm  the  eye,  as  to  suggest  great 
thoughts  that  will  appeal  to  the  imagination  and 
the  heart,  and  kindle  all  that  is  best  and  noblest 
in  humanity."  And  so  great  as  was  his  mastery 
of  technique,  and  his  power  in  draughtmanship, 
it  was  far  greater  in  symbolic  representation, 
with  what  may  be  called  a  character-purpose 
underneath.  The  poet  just  quoted  from  wrote 
to  Sir  George  Beaumont,  "The  poet  is  a  teacher. 
I  want  to  be  considered  as  a  teacher,  or  as  noth- 
ing." Watts  acted  on  this  maxim  as  an  artist; 
and  his  acting  on  it  is  one  key  to  his  greatness. 
And  so  he  did  more  than  any  other  nineteenth- 
century  teacher  to  refute  the  maxim  that  Art 
has  nothing  to  do  with  Morality,  or  that  the 
Beautiful  and  the  Good  are  disparate;  because 
he  proved  the  opposite  by  his  own  practice. 
"Art  for  Art's  sake  alone"  was  to  him  an  artistic 
heresy  of  the  first  magnitude.  But  the  mere 
presence  of  a  truth  behind  the  form  and  colour 
of  a  picture  was  not  enough.  No  one  realised 
more  fully,  or  proved  better  than  he  did,  that  the 
media  through  which  artistic  truth  is  presented, 
or  conveyed,  must  be  as  perfect  as  technical 
processes  can  make  them;  but  then  he  also  saw, 

[133] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

and  taught,  that  they  must  express  what  they 
cannot  delineate,  and  that  they  must  suggest  what 
they  are  unable  to  disclose. 

And  here  came  in  his  surpassing  use  of  alle- 
gory, of  clear  and  noble  symbolism  in  pictures, 
where  ideas  are  "half-concealed,  yet  half-re- 
vealed." Allegory  was  to  Watts  what  his  "  dra- 
matic-lyric" work  in  verse  was  to  Browning,  viz.: 
one  of  the  media  by  which  truth  could  best  of  all 
be  discerned,  although  disclosed  through  veils. 
And  in  all  of  it,  as  wrought  out  by  him,  there  was 
nothing  strained  or  unreal;  although  much  was 
elusive  at  first  sight.  We  cannot  imagine  Watts 
attempting  such  a  mosaic  as  Raphael's  in  the 
Chigi  chapel,  where  the  subject  is  "God  Creat- 
ing the  Stars",  a  picture  full  of  artifice,  and  in 
which  the  grotesquerie  of  the  theme  wholly  over- 
powers the  grace  of  the  angel-boys.  On  the 
other  hand,  one  can  imagine  the  uninitiated  real- 
ist looking  at  his  Fugue,  and  being  as  perplexed 
to  find  its  meaning,  as  readers  of  Browning's 
One  Way  of  Love  and  Another  Way  of  Love  occa- 
sionally are  to  understand  the  latter.  The  ob- 
scurity of  some  of  his  pictures  to  the  common 
eye,  however,  is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  artist 
saw  so  much  to  which  the  common  eye  is  blind. 
But  most  of  his  symbols  are  clear  as  crystal. 
His  Hope  is  like  Browning's  Alt  Vogler,  or  his 
Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  or  his  Guardian  Angel.  In 
Love  and  Death,  where  Love  tries  to  stay  the  ap- 

[134] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

proach  of  the  last  enemy;  in  Love  and  Life,  in 
which  the  former  guides  and  protects  the  latter ; 
in  Time,  Death  and  judgment,  and  in  Love  Tri- 
umphant, we  have  a  single  great  thought  pre- 
sented to  us,  unobscured  by  complex  side-sug- 
gestions— as  was  the  case  in  that  great  contem- 
porary picture  The  Light  of  the  World.  It  is  the 
combination  of  this  clear  direct  allegory,  this 
unambiguous  ideal  touching,  with  exceeding 
fineness  of  contour  and  warmth  of  colour,  that 
has  made  his  pictures  appeal  with  such  a  charm 
alike  to  the  educated  and  half-educated  classes. 
It  is  also  worthy  of  note  that  the  subjects 
chosen  for  his  allegoric  work  were  not  sought 
in  the  distant  past,  or  even  in  the  present, 
but  rather  in  the  perennial  and  ever-present 
symbolism  of  the  world.  Realizing,  as  he  al- 
ways did,  the  impotence  of  language  to  dis- 
close what  lies  deepest  in  man  —  although  his 
power  over  the  resources  of  the  English 
tongue  was  great  —  he  dealt  with  the  "open 
secret"  of  the  world  through  the  medium  of  Art. 
In  all  his  work  he  was  artist  first,  teacher  after- 
wards; artist  pure  and  simple,  while  in  insight  he 
was  seer  and  prophet.  No  one  could  be  long  in 
his  presence  without  realizing  that  his  know- 
ledge of  ultimate  problems  was  as  wide,  and  his 
acquaintance  with  them  as  deep,  as  that  of  any 
of  his  contemporaries.  His  familiarity  with 
classical  themes,  with  History  and  Antiquities, 

[135] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

is  seen  in  several  of  his  works ;  but  his  apprecia- 
tion of  the  great  questions  of  the  ages — their  par- 
tial solutions  and  abiding  mysteries — is  dis- 
closed in  many  others.  It  is  for  this  reason,  even 
more  than  for  his  versatility  and  many-sidedness, 
that  some  have  presumed  to  think  of  him  as  the 
Shakespeare  of  British  art.  He  was  certainly 
far  wider  in  his  range  than  Sir  Joshua,  Gains- 
borough, or  Hay  don;  while  there  was  an  eleva- 
tion, a  majesty,  and  magnificence  about  his 
work,  which  was  absent  from  theirs. 

His  allegoric  teaching  culminated  in  those 
paintings  which  refer  to  Death  and  the  Future. 
In  those  already  mentioned,  and  in  Sic  Transit 
Gloria  Mundi,  The  Messenger,  Death  Crowning 
Innocence,  Love  Triumphant,  but  above  all  in 
The  Court  of  Death,  the  ever  fascinating  yet 
mysterious  subject  was  dealt  with  from  many 
different  points  of  view.  He  wished  to  help  men 
to  realise  that  Death  was  not  only  inevitable  and 
natural,  but  that  it  was  a  friend  and  not  an 
enemy. 

"I  want,"  he  said,  "to  destroy  the  notion  that 
it  is  'the  king  of  terrors/  "  Again,  "my  favour- 
ite thought  recognises  Death  £s  a  kind  nurse 
who  says,  'Now  then,  children,  you  must  go  to 
bed,  and  wake  up  in  the  morning.' '  In  the 
Sic  Transit  —  with  its  magnificent  motto,  "What 
I  spent,  I  had;  What  I  saved,  I  lost;  What  I 
gave,  I  have"  —  the  truth  is  indirectly  taught 

[136] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

which  culminates  in  The  Court  of  Death.  Of  the 
former  picture  he  said,  "It  conveys  some  of  the 
lessons  I  would  teach;  at  the  end  of  life,  a  man 
has  simply  to  leave  behind  the  things  he  most 
prizes."  But  in  the  latter  a  much  loftier  note  is 
struck.  The  central  idea  of  that  great  painting 
is  far  nobler  than  what  is  conveyed  in  Love  and 
Death:  in  which  we  see,  and  feel,  the  pathos  of  re- 
sisting love  before  resistless  doom.  He  said  to 
me,  when  expounding  this  later  picture  in  Little 
Holland  House,  and  at  Limnerslease,  "I  want 
to  take  away  the  terribleness  of  Death,  and  the 
irrational  shrinking  of  men  and  women  before 
it."  It  is  the  same  as  that  which  underlies  the 
whole  of  Tennyson's  In  Memoriam.  I  ventured 
to  refer  to  the  well-known  lines  of  another  poet. 

Thou  takest  not  away,  O  death! 

Thou  strikest;  absence  perisheth. 
He  said,  "Yes;  but  my  aim  is  to  represent  Death 
as  a  gracious  Mother,  calling  her  chidren  home. 
You  see,  I  could  not  make  the  central  figure  in 
that  picture  a  man.  It  is  a  woman,  a  Queen,  a 
Goddess,  a  Mother.  She  summons  her  children, 
and  they  come  to  her  gladly.  The  peer  lays 
down  his  coronet,  the  warrior  his  sword;  the 
maiden  lies  down  to  sleep. 

The  child,  too,  is  there,  for  youth  as  well  as  age 
must  die.  Above  them  are  two  figures,  one  on 
either  side.  On  the  left  hand  there  is  Mystery, 
the  impenetrable  mystery  of  death;  while  on  the 

[137] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

right  there  is  Hope,  hope  for  the  future.  But 
the  central  idea,  and  the  central  fact,  is  the  joy- 
ous, benignant  Mother;  a  goddess,  and  more 
than  a  goddess,  calling  her  children  home." 

It  is  questionable  if  any  theological,  argu- 
mentative, or  poetical  treatment  of  the  subject 
of  Death  and  the  Future  has  taught  the  world 
more  than  this  picture  has  done.  Certainly  no 
Platonic  dialogue,  or  Stoical  treatise,  has  ex- 
celled it.  And  it  shows,  more  than  his  works  do, 
that  Watts  was  in  a  really  profound  sense,  a 
religious  artist;  although  not  in  the  way  in  which 
the  chief  Italians  of  the  Middle  Age,  from  Cima- 
bue  to  Raphael,  were.  He  did  not  give  us 
"Holy  Families,"  "Annunciations,"  pictures 
of  the  "Nativity,"  the  "Crucifixion,"  or  the 
"  Flight  into  Egypt,"  etc.  He  dealt  rather  with 
the  fundamental  verities,  and  even  tried  to  pen- 
etrate the  arcana  of  belief.  And  so,  as  already 
said,  his  message  was  to  all  the  Churches.  He 
was  too  wise  a  man  to  proclaim  himself  a  teacher, 
too  complete  an  artist  to  obtrude  an  ethical  aim 
into  his  pictures.  But  throughout  his  whole  ca- 
reer, dealing  with  the  deep  things  of  our  human- 
ity and  the  mysteries  that  underlie  our  common 
life,  his  aim  was  to  hearten  his  contemporaries 
by  unfolding  those  fair  ideals  and  hopes  with 
which  his  own  mind  was  full.  Even  when  his- 
torical or  legendary  subjects  were  selected  by 
him,  it  was  those  which  had  a  perennial  lesson 

[138] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

that  were  chosen,  not  those  which  reflected  a 
passing  Zeitgeist,  but  subjects  which  were  rele- 
vant to  any  and  every  age. 

We  must  not  forget  that  he  almost  brought 
about  the  reintroduction  of  fresco  work  into 
England.  As  all  who  have  followed  his  career 
are  aware,  its  turning  point  was  his  obtaining 
one  of  the  first  premiums  of  £300  offered  for  dec- 
orative designs  in  connection  with  the  rebuilding 
of  the  Houses  of  Parliament  at  Westminster. 
With  a  wise  prescience,  Benjamin  Haydon  had 
said,  "If  the  Commission  heroically  adopts 
fresco,  the  effect  on  British  Art  will  be  tremen- 
dous. That  province  I  know  to  be  a  silent  vol- 
cano." It  is  unnecessary  to  re-tell  the  story 
of  Watts's  Caractacus,  or  his  Alfred  Inciting  the 
Saxons  to  Resist  the  Landing  of  the  Danes,  or  his 
later  (and  greater)  fresco  of  Justice  for  the  Hall 
of  Lincoln's  Inn;  but  his  appreciation  of  mural 
painting  on  a  large  scale  dealing  with  historic 
subjects  was  such  that  he  made  the  most  gener- 
ous offers  towards  its  realisation.  Many  know 
of  his  offer  to  the  directors  of  the  London 
and  North-Western  Railway  to  decorate  the 
hall  of  Euston  Station  with  groups  illustrative 
of  the  progress  of  the  race.  Had  the  offer  been 
accepted,  and  the  work  executed,  it  would  prob- 
ably have  perished  by  this  time ;  as  fresco  cannot 
live  long  uninjured  by  the  fogs  and  darkness  of 
our  climate,  and  least  of  all  in  London.  But  the 

[139] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

offer  to  adorn  a  railway  station  with  pictures  of 
the  Cosmos  can  never  be  forgotten;  and  had  it 
been  realised,  the  result  would  probably  have 
eclipsed  the  Lincoln's  Inn  achievement  of  1859. 

His  dreams  of  a  great  hall  to  be  filled  with 
frescoes,  illustrating  not  only  English  life,  char- 
acter, and  history,  but  memorialising  the  noble 
deeds  of  all  time — pictures  which  would  be  a 
school  of  teaching  as  well  as  a  source  of  delight 
to  thousands — was  Utopian.  Nevertheless  it 
was  a  magnificent  idea;  and  if  its  realisation  ever 
comes,  it  must  wait  for  the  advent  of  another 
artist  like  himself. 

Ruskin  spoke  of  him  as  "the  only  real  painter 
of  History  or  Thought  we  have  in  England." 
That  was  doubtless  an  exaggeration,  but  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  one  of  the  very 
greatest.  Since  his  pictures  are  dispersed  in  places 
so  far  apart  it  would  certainly  be  a  great  thing 
for  the  nation  if  as  many  of  them  as  are  remov- 
able— and  there  are  between  700  and  800— 
could  be  brought  together  for  a  time  in  a  great 
loan  exhibition,  similar  to  that  of  the  works  of 
Burne- Jones  in  the  New  Gallery  some  years  ago, 
or  the  smaller  collection  of  his  own  pictures  in 
in  the  same  gallery  in  1896-7. 

Watts  was  a  distinguished  portrait-painter  for 
more  than  fifty  years ;  and  most  of  his  contempo- 
raries of  eminence  sat  to  him  on  his  own  invita- 
tion. It  is  doubtful  if  any  portrait-painter  the 

[140] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

wide  world  over  ever  did  this  in  the  same  way, 
and  certainly  no  one  has  done  it  for  a  similar 
reason,  viz.,  that  he  might  gift  their  likenesses 
to  the  nation.  His  divining  instinct  told  him 
who  were  the  representative  men  whom  it  was 
desirable  to  include  in  his  National  Portrait  Gal- 
lery, his  valhalla  of  the  illustrious.  He  did  not 
succeed  in  obtaining  sittings  from  all  whom  he 
wished  to  paint,  but  his  list  is  a  very  remark- 
able one;  and  no  portrait-painter  was  ever  less 
photographic.  Mere  outward  resemblance  was 
not  his  aim,  but  the  portrayal  of  character  be- 
hind the  features,  a  likeness  hinted  or  suggested 
rather  than  wrought  out.  As  expression  is  for- 
ever changing,  many  varying  moods  have  to  be 
combined  in  a  unity  made  permanent  through 
form  and  colour.  More  than  that,  the  central 
dominant  expression,  the  individuality  of  the  in- 
dividual, the  speciality  of  his  character,  has  to  be 
discovered  and  represented.  Tennyson's  lines 
in  the  Idylls  of  the  King  were  written  in  refer- 
ence to  the  practice  of  Watts  as  portrait-artist: 

As  when  a  painter,  poring  on  a  face 
Divinely  through  all  hindrance  finds  the  man 
Behind  it,  and  so  paints  him  that  his  face, 
The  shape  and  colour  of  a  mind  and  life 
Live  for  his  children  ever  at  its  best. 

And  how  true  this  is  of  almost  all  his  portraits. 
He  is  said  to  have  liked  best  his  rendering  of  the 
features  of  his  brother  artist,  Burne- Jones;  but 

[141] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

others  in  his  great  gallery  are  quite  as  fine- 
Lords  Stratford  de  Redcliffe,  Lawrence,  Lytton, 
and  Tennyson,  Mr.  Russell  Gurney,  Mrs.  Percy 
Wyndham,  George  Meredith,  Joachim,  etc.  In 
a  collected  gallery  of  his  works  the  variety  of 
the  types  presented  to  us  would  be  very  notice- 
able. We  would  find  the  innocence  of  girlhood, 
the  purity  of  womanhood,  the  strength  of  man- 
hood, the  patience  of  age,  the  contentedness  of 
labour,  the  power  of  intellect,  the  expectancy  of 
youth,  the  wisdom  of  maturity,  the  serenity  of 
departing  life.  There  is  no  doubt  that  had  his 
early  wish  been  realised,  he  would  have  been  our 
fresco-painter  on  a  national  scale,  par  excellence; 
but  then  the  world  would  have  never  seen  his 
magnificent  series  of  idylls,  odes,  and  sonnets  on 
canvas;  great  epics  pushing  all  these  aside. 

As  a  colourist  he  had  perhaps  his  equals 
amongst  nineteenth-century  men,  but  scarcely 
a  rival.  Millais  and  Burne-Jones  surpassed 
him  in  some  directions;  but,  take  him  for  all  in 
all,  we  must  go  back  to  the  Venetians — and  per- 
haps to  Tintoretto  rather  than  to  Titian — to  find 
canvases  at  once  more  gorgeous  and  more  deli- 
cate; while  for  colour,  subservient  to  an  ethereal 
ideal  aim,  he  had  no  rival  in  his  time.  He  was 
very  modest  in  his  estimate  of  himself  as  a  colour- 
ist; and  would,  perhaps,  have  admitted  that  he 
was  conventional  now  and  then,  in  the  way  in 
which  he  rendered  the  billowy  fringes  of  his 

[142] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

drapery,  his  flesh  tints,  or  his  clouds.  A  learner 
to  the  very  end,  he  once  said  to  me  in  the  studio  at 
Little  Holland  House,  without  the  faintest  sou  peon 
of  pretence — for  affectation  was  impossible  to  him 
-"I  think  if  I  live,  I  shall  be  a  colourist  yet!" 
He  had  been  lamenting  his  own  failures,  and 
praising  the  success  of  others  when  he  said  it. 
His  landscape  colour  was  occasionally  as  fine  as 
that  of  Turner;  while  to  equal  its  rich  symbolism 
we  must  go  back  to  Francois  Millet.  As  in  por- 
traiture so  in  landscape-art — he  was  never  a 
mere  copyist;  or,  while  reproducing  Nature,  he 
drew  out  its  ideality,  and  combined  details  so  as 
to  present  us  with  an  allegory.  Like  our  Eng- 
lish Millais  in  his  Autumn  Leaves,  his  Harbour 
of  Refuge  and  his  Vagrants,  or  Frederick  Walker 
in  his  Plough,  or  Mason  in  his  Harvest  Moon, 
he  was  a  symbolist  in  his  landscape-art.  Such 
pictures  as  The  Dove  that  Returned  in  the 
Evening,  The  Dove  that  Returned  not  Again, 
Neptune's  Horses,  Good  Luck  to  Tour  Fishing, 
or  The  Mid-day  Rest,  are  landscape-allegories. 
And  when  he  dealt  with  Nature  pure  and  simple, 
as  in  his  sunset  pictures  of  Western  Scotland,  his 
Naples,  the  Bay  and  Vesuvius,  his  Carrara  Moun- 
tains from  Pisa,  or  his  Mount  Ararat,  the  combina- 
tion of  strength  and  refinement,  of  meaning  and 
delicacy,  carries  the  spectator  beyond  the  actual. 
Quite  as  much  as  our  idealist  poets  do,  he  showed  us 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

[143] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

His  achievements  in  sculpture  were  such  as  to 
warrant  the  belief  that  had  he  given  himself  to  it 
exclusively,  after  his  early  initiation  through  the 
Elgin  marbles,  he  might  have  become  perhaps 
the  greatest  in  Europe  since  Michael  Angelo. 
As  a  youth  he  learned  much  in  the  studio  of 
William  Behnes,  but  it  was  his  study  of  the 
Elgin  marbles  that  enabled  him  to  produce  his 
Clytie;  and  the  Greek  spirit  of  the  Periclean  age 
breathes  through  all  his  statuary,  as  it  does 
through  much  of  his  mural  painting  and  through 
such  single  figures  as  Psyche.  Hugh  Lupus  is  a 
magnificent  statue,  but  his  greatest  work  in 
sculpture  is  undoubtedly  that  which  finds  a  tem- 
porary resting-place  in  the  quadrangle  of  Bur- 
lington House,  viz.,  Physical  Energy,  originally 
intended  for  the  Thames  Embankment,  but  to 
be  shortly  placed  near  the  grave  of  Cecil  Rhodes 
on  the  Matoppo  Hills  in  South  Africa.  When 
seen  on  a  height,  and  from  a  distance,  its  power 
will  be  apparent.  The  courtyard  where  it  is  at 
present  is  the  worst  possible  place  for  such  a  co- 
colossal  subject.  Its  designer  and  executor 
worked  at  it  on  and  off  for  twenty  years,  as  he 
worked  at  The  Court  of  Death. 

Of  no  sculptor  or  painter — not  even  of  Mich- 
ael Angelo  and  Raphael — can  it  be  said  that 
they  never  failed  in  their  work;  but  there  are, 
perhaps,  fewer  failures  to  be  recorded  in  the  long 

[144] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

list  of  Watts's  productions  than  in  those  of  any 
other 

In  the  artist-list  enrolled. 

He  was  a  master  in  form,  design,  invention, 
colour,  atmosphere,  character,  suggestion,  ideal- 
ity. 

We  find  in  him  the  classic  and  the  renaissance 
spirit,  the  ancient  and  the  modern  combined; 
and  yet  he  was  pre-eminently  our  great  nine- 
teenth-century English  artist. 

When  his  life  is  written  with  authority — its 
story  is  already  told  in  his  pictures — we  shall  ob- 
tain reliable  information  as  to  many  of  the  influ- 
ences which  shaped  and  determined  his  career. 
We  shall  know  what  Florence  did  for  him,  and 
Rome  and  Holland  House,  what  Halicarnasus 
and  Egypt  did.  Admired  and  honoured  wher- 
ever he  went,  he  lived  an  unobtrusive  life;  apart 
from  others,  though  not  a  recluse.  He  never 
thought  of  "pleasing  the  public,"  or  "painting 
to  order."  He  followed  the  guidance  of  his  own 
ideals,  at  first  along  a  somewhat  lonely  road. 
More  versatile  and  eclectic  than  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries, he  allied  himself  to  no  school,  owed 
allegiance  to  no  masters,  save  the  great  Greek 
sculptors.  This,  however,  did  not  prevent 
him  from  sympathising  with  men,  and  appre- 
ciating movements  with  which  he  could  not  iden- 
tify himself,  viz.,  the  Pre-Raphaelites.  He  could 
not  be  one  of  the  leaders  of  that  cult.  His  fresco- 

[145] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

work  in  the  Hemicycle  of  Lawgivers  had  been 
too  Raphaelesque  to  permit  of  his  being  swept 
forward  on  a  new  current  of  romance,  great  as 
it  was.  But  he  appreciated  (none  more  so)  the 
aims,  and  honoured  the  successes,  of  Rossetti, 
Maddox  Brown,  Holman  Hunt,  Millais,  and  the 
rest  of  the  brotherhood. 

It  is  specially  noteworthy  that  from  the  first 
he  did  not  set  himself  to  copy  even  the  greatest 
of  his  predecessors.  He  studied  them  all,  in 
London  Florence  and  Rome,  took  mental  notes 
of  them,  assimilated  what  was  best  in  them, 
schooled  himself  by  their  excellences,  followed 
their  example,  but  did  not  copy  them.  He  worked 
with  rarest  modesty  and  self-abnegation ;  and  his 
greatness  came  out  in  his  silence  before  the  mas- 
terpieces which  he  reverenced,  quite  as  much  as 
in  his  ceaseless  labour  for  posterity,  The  stren- 
uousness  of  that  labour,  and  his  pursuit  of  the 
ideal,  found  expression  in  the  motto  carved  on 
his  sundial  in  the  garden  at  Limnerslease, 

The  utmost  for  the  highest. 

The  titles  chosen  by  artists  for  their  pictures 
are  often  significant,  and  some  of  those  selected 
by  Watts  were  poems  in  embryo.  As  many  of 
Browning's  poems  were  both  theses  and  pictures 
in  verse,  so  many  of  Watts's  pictures  were  theses 
in  form,  and  colour-illustrations  of  ideal  truth  on 
canvas.  But  the  titles  he  gave  them  were  often 
studies  in  symbolism,  and  they  suggested  more 

[146] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

than  they  disclosed.  I  once  asked  him  if  he 
would  give  us  a  picture  that  might  be  called  The 
Strength  of  the  Hills  is  His.  He  replied:  "I 
cannot  use  that  title.  It  is  too  great  for  me.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  of  The  Spirit  of  God 
Moved  upon  the  Face  of  the  Waters.  That  I 
might  use,  but  not  the  other."  He  added:  "The 
first  chapter  of  Genesis  is  full  of  titles  for  the 
painter  of  allegory.  So  are  Job,  Proverbs,  Eccle- 
siastes,  and  some  of  the  Psalms.  But,  of  the 
greatest  of  all  time,  how  true  it  is,  'never  man 
spake  like  this  man/  You  read  through  all  the 
literature  of  the  East,  of  Greece,  and  of  Rome, 
and  where  do  you  come  across  a  sentence  like 
this:  "Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto 
me?'  " 

What  he  has  written,  or  spoken,  of  his  own 
convictions  as  to  Art,  and  his  own  practice  of  it, 
has  a  special  interest  and  value  to  posterity.  In 
the  year  1890,  when  he  resolved  not  to  claim  his 
right  as  an  R.  A.  to  send  pictures  to  Burlington 
House,  but  to  let  his  work  be  judged  each  year 
by  the  Committee  on  its  merits,  he  wrote,  "In  my 
seventy-fourth  year,  I  cannot  be  certain  of  being 
up  to  my  old  level,  and  I  have  asked  for  severe 
judgment  from  the  Committee  of  Selection,  and 
the  Hanging  Committee,  in  order  to  be  sure  of 
not  disgracing  the  Academy  and  myself;  so  I 
may  have  nothing  there.  Of  course,  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  Council  may  find  my  contributions 

[147] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

sufficiently  satisfactory  to  hang,  but  I  am  very 
sincere  in  my  desire  to  have  my  work  judged 
even  severely.  We  have  seen  deplorable  exam- 
ples of  the  failure  of  the  eye  and  hand,  and  I 
much  desire  not  to  be  added  to  the  number/' 

So  late  as  1895  he  wrote:  "I  am  always  grati- 
fied when  I  find  the  drift  of  my  efforts  recog- 
nised. That  may  be  accepted  as  a  certain 
measure  of  success.  Contemporary  opinion  as 
to  the  merit  of  technical  accomplishment,  I  do 
not  find  much  satisfaction  in;  knowing  how 
much  such  opinion  varies,  as  time  goes  on." 

Very  characteristic,  too,  was  his  habit  of  inter- 
mitting work  on  a  particular  picture  in  order  to 
take  up  another,  and  again  to  lay  the  latter 
down.  Doing  his  work  by  instalments,  with 
intervals  for  fresh  survey  and  reconsideration; 
this  was  to  him  the  rest  that  fitted  for  toil.  His 
relaxation  was  not  idleness,  but  change  of  work. 

His  great  kindness  to  animals,  and  his  sym- 
pathy with  the  Associations  for  preventing  cru- 
elty to  them,  should  not  be  forgotten.  I  remem- 
ber his  denunciation  of  what  he  called  the 
"barbarous  custom"  of  cutting,  or  docking, 
horses'  tails.  He  said  to  me,  "It  destroys  their 
beauty,  and  robs  them  of  one  of  Nature's  gifts. 
On  artistic,  as  well  as  humanitarian  grounds,  it 
is  to  be  condemned." 

It  was  one  of  the  aims  of  his  life  to  preserve 
through  his  art  the  memory  of  brave  deeds,  done 

[148] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

by  brave  men  and  women  in  humble  life.  He 
planned,  and  in  fact  carried  out,  the  idea  of 
erecting  tablet-inscriptions  to  their  memory  in 
gardens  and  other  public  places;  setting  forth 
the  heroism  of  acts  that  resulted  in  serious  injury, 
or  loss  of  life,  in  the  effort  to  save  the  lives  of 
others;  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  gratifying  of 
tributes  to  him  that  this  will,  in  all  likelihood, 
be  carried  out  more  fully  still.  The  inscriptions 
on  the  memorial  wall  of  St.  Botolph's,  Alders- 
gate-street,  are  likely  to  be  followed  by  the  erec- 
tion of  a  hall  or  park  at  Guildford  for  a  similar 
purpose.  Amongst  the  schemes  which  he  cher- 
ished was  the  "Home  Arts  and  Industries  Asso- 
ciation," which  ranks  with  the  "Kyrle  Society,'* 
the  "Society  for  the  Preservation  of  Public 
Parks  and  Gardens,"  and  the  "National  Trust 
for  Places  of  Historical  Interest  and  Natural 
Beauty,"  as  one  of  the  best  means  for  bringing 
the  influence  of  Art  to  bear  on  the  daily  life  and 
surroundings  of  the  poor.  He  firmly  believed 
that  many  of  the  working-classes  could  learn  the 
meaning  of  what  was  good  and  true,  for  them- 
selves and  others,  if  they  entered  into  these 
realms  by  the  gate  called  Beautiful. 

He  saw,  as  few  have  done,  that  high  Art  was 
an  inheritance  for  the  many,  not  the  property  of 
the  esoteric  few,  but  a  privilege  for  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  men,  women,  and  children. 

Similarly,  that  its  mission  was  to  all  sects  and 
[149] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

parties.  He  dedicated  one  of  his  pictures,  The 
Spirit  of  Christianity,  "to  all  the  churches;'* 
and  certainly  the  truth  it  teaches  is  one  which 
may  appeal  to  Christian,  Jew,  Mahometan,  Bud- 
dhist, and  Parsee  alike. 

Another  of  his  suggestions  was  that  frescoes  or 
oil-pictures,  representing  great  men  or  great 
events,  or  illustrations  of  great  truths,  should  be 
painted  on  the  walls  of  class-rooms  in  our  chief 
public  school  during  the  long  summer  holidays, 
when  there  was  time  for  the  execution  of  the 
task.  He  believed  that  the  sight,  and  the  study 
of  such  paintings,  would  be  an  education  to  the 
boys  and  girls  when  they  returned ;  and  certainly, 
if  mural  tablets  in  halls  or  corridors  of  class- 
rooms, recording  the  names  of  prize-winners,  or 
of  old  pupils,  who  afterwards  distinguished 
themselves,  or  fell  in  battle  for  their  country- 
are  useful  for  their  successors  at  school,  such 
pictures  as  Watts  desired  to  have  painted  and 
hung  up  might  embody  lessons  quite  as  useful. 

He  retained  a  young  man's  heart  in  old  age, 
while  almost  all  his  comrades  had  predeceased 
him.  Ruskin's  death  grieved  him  much.  He 
regretted  that  he  had  not  managed  to  include 
him  in  his  National  Gallery  of  Portraits,  and  sent 
a  laurel  spray  to  Coniston  churchyard — as  he 
had  sent  a  similar  tribute  to  Westminster,  at  the 
funerals  of  Browning  and  Tennyson — remarking, 
"This  is  the  last/' 

[150] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

At  his  funeral  service  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral, 
the  archdeacon  read  as  Scripture  lesson  the  ever- 
memorable  prayer  from  Ecclesiasticus,  beginning, 
"Let  us  now  praise  famous  men,  and  the  fathers 
that  begat  us.  Their  bodies  are  buried  in  peace, 
but  their  name  liveth  for  evermore." 

Although  the  immortality  of  all  the  "works 
of  art  and  man's  device"  is  relative,  and  only 
for  a  time,  it  is  certain  that  the  achievements  of 
our  great  nineteenth-century  painter  will  live 
and  profoundly  influence  thousands,  in  The  era 
on  which  we  have  entered,  and  in  the  others  that 
are  to  follow  it. 

APPENDIX 

In  casting  additional  light  on  the  art  and 
ethical  teaching  of  George  Frederick  Watts,  the 
following  extracts  from  a  "  Prefatory  Note "  to 
the  catalogue  of  his  works,  on  view  in  the  winter 
exhibitions  at  the  New  Gallery  in  London 
(1896-7):  along  with  others  taken  from  the 
"  Catalogue  "  itself — both  of  which  were  written 
by  himself — are  printed  as  an  appendix: 

FROM  THE  "PREFATORY  NOTE." 

THE  great  majority  of  these  works  must 
be  regarded  rather  as  hieroglyphs  than 
anything  else,  certainly  not  as  more  than 
symbols,  which  all  Art  was  in  the  be- 
ginning, and  which  everything  is,  that  is  not  di- 
rectly connected  with  physical  conditions.     In 

[151] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

many  cases  the  intention  is  frankly  didactic,  ex- 
cuse for  this — generally  regarded  as  exasperat- 
ing— being  that  it  has  been  found,  not  seldom, 
that  the  attempts  to  reflect  the  thoughts  of  the 
most  elevated  minds  of  all  ages,  even  in  an 
unused  and  halting  language,  have  not  been  with- 
out interest  at  least,  if  without  profit. 

Whatever  type  may  have  been  used,  classical, 
mediaeval,  or  other,  the  endeavour  has  been  to 
impress  distinctly  the  direction  of  modern 
thought;  and  in  all,  except  two  cases,  reference 
to  spiritual  dogmas  has  been  purposely  avoided ; 
the  two  exceptions  being  "  Faith,"  and  the  "  Ded- 
ication to  All  the  Churches." 

In  the  first,  "Faith,"  wearied  and  saddened 
by  the  result  of  persecution,  washes  her  blood- 
stained feet,  and  recognising  the  influence  of 
Love  in  the  perfume  and  beauty  of  flowers,  and 
of  Peace  and  Joy  in  the  song  of  birds,  feels  that 
the  sword  was  not  the  best  argument,  and  takes 
it  off.  "The  Spirit  of  Christianity,"  dedicated 
to  all  the  Churches,"  needs  no  explanation. 

The  long  unfinished  design  "Chaos"  was  in- 
tended to  be  the  introductory  chapter  of  a  gen- 
eral History  of  Mankind,  the  emergence  from 
convulsion  to  evolution  in  material  and  social 
conditions,  typified  by  emblems  of  the  great  hu- 
man families. 

In  the  several  subjects  relating  to  Death,  the 
object  has  been  to  divest  the  inevitable  of  its  ter- 

[152] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

rors ;  the  Power  has  always  been  depicted  as  im- 
personal, and  rather  as  a  friend  than  an  enemy. 
In  the  large  design,  "The  Court  of  Death/'  the 
power  does  not  act,  but  receives  homage ;  the  sol- 
dier surrenders  his  sword,  the  noble  his  coronet, 
the  mendicant  and  oppressed  seek  relief.  Sick- 
ness lays  her  head  upon  the  knee  of  Death,  old 
age  comes  for  repose,  the  child  plays  with  the 
grave-cloths  unknowingly,  and  in  the  arms  of  the 
silent  figure  is  the  youngest  possible  child,  the 
very  beginning  of  Life  being  in  the  lap  of  Death. 
Two  powers,  Silence  and  Mystery,  guard  the 
entrance  of  the  Unknown. 

"The  Messenger"  announces  repose  after 
life's  work.  The  same  Power  takes  charge  of 
Innocence,  placing  it  beyond  the  reach  of  evil. 
"Mammon"  speaks  for  itself;  so,  also,  "Great 
Possessions"  and  "Jonah,"  each  being  espe- 
cially addressed  to  modern  philosophy. 

"Hope"  strives  to  get  all  the  music  possible 
out  of  the  last  remaining  string. 

"Sic Transit"  is  an  illustration  of  a  noble  med- 
iaeval inscription,  having  a  general  application; 
not  symbolical  of  either  individual  Life  or  Death. 

"Eve,"  in  the  majesty  of  unconsciousness, 
typifies  what  might  be  hoped  for  humanity, 
"for  every  human  soul  has,  in  the  way  of  nature, 
beheld  true  being." 

"  Immeshed  by  Temptation  "and  "  Repentant " 
may  be  easily  understood. 

[153] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

The  figure  with  the  Globe  of  the  Systems  may 
be  called  the  Spirit  that  pervades  the  immeas- 
urable expanse. 

"Love  and  Death"  represents  the  progress 
of  the  inevitable  but  not  terrible;  Death  partially, 
but  not  completely,  overshadows  Love. 

In  "Love  and  Life"  the  slight  female  figure  is 
an  emblem  of  the  fragile  quality  in  humanity,  at 
once  its  weakness  and  its  strength;  sensibility 
aided  by  love,  sympathy,  tenderness,  self-sacri- 
fice, and  all  that  the  whole  range  of  the  term  im- 
plies; humanity  ascends  the  rugged  path  from 
brutality  to  spirituality. 

In  the  large  monochrome,  "  Peace,"  the  right- 
ful sovereign  of  an  intellectual  world,  with  *  'Good 
Will,"  symbolised  by  an  innocent  child,  wearied 
and  foot-sore,  regards  through  the  dim  atmos- 
phere a  distant  glimmer,  dawn  or  conflagration. 
In  the  design  entitled  "The  Dweller  in  the  Inner- 
most," the  vague  figure  may  be  as  vaguely  called 
Conscience. 

This  explanation  is  only  intended  to  convey  a 
bald  and  bare  idea  of  the  thread  of  thought  con- 
necting the  whole  together,  and  to  show  that  the 
object  in  work  has  been  to  suggest,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Art,  Modern  Thought  in  things  ethical 
and  spiritual. 

FROM  THE  "CATALOGUE"  ITSELF. 
FAITH. 

Faith,  "wearied  and  saddened  by  the  result 

[154] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

of  persecution,"  is  seated  on  a  rock  with  up- 
turned face,  and  washes  her  blood-stained  feet; 
on  her  lap  lie  flowers,  the  perfume  and  beauty 
of  which  inspire  her  with  love ;  she  is  loosening 
the  sword,  believing  she  can  persuade  by  other 

means.     To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

Love  stands  upon  the  threshold  of  the  House 
of  Life,  barring  the  entry  against  the  fatal  ad- 
vance of  Death.  The  bright  wings  of  the  God 
are  already  crushed  and  broken  against  the  lintel 
of  the  door,  and  the  petals  are  falling  from  the 
roses  that  Love  has  set  around  the  porch.  The 
pale  form  of  Death  presses  forward  with  calm, 
resistless  tread,  and  the  white,  uplifted  arm 
passes  above  the  head  of  Love  in  token  of  sover- 
eignty. Painted  in  1887.  To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

THE  ALL-PERVADING. 

The  all-pervading  Spirit  of  the  Universe  rep- 
resented as  a  winged  figure,  seated,  holding  in 
her  lap  the  "Globe  of  the  Systems.'* 

Sic  TRANSIT. 

"What  I  spent,  I  had! 
What  I  saved,  I  lost! 
What  I  gave,  I  have!" 
A  symbol  of  the  end  of  all  human  life,  and  of 
the  varied  possibilities  it  brings  to  each  to  make 

that  life  immortal.    To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

[155] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

HOPE. 

Hope,  blindfolded,  and  clad  in  a  pale  blue 
robe,  is  seated  on  the  globe,  and  holds  in  her 
hands  her  lyre,  of  which  but  one  string  remains ; 
she  lends  her  ear  to  the  melody  she  still  can 

make.      To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

TIME,  DEATH,  AND  JUDGMENT. 

Time,  represented  as  the  type  of  unfailing 
youth  and  vigour,  advances  hand  in  hand  with 
Death,  while  poised  in  the  clouds  above  their 
heads  follows  the  figure  of  Judgment,  armed 
with  the  attributes  of  Eternal  Law.  TO  be  presented 

to  the  Nation. 

PEACE  AND  GOODWILL. 

Full-length,  life-size  figure  of  a  woman  seated 
on  the  ground,  a  child  on  her  lap,  and  leaning 
back  against  a  low  wall ;  her  head  is  turned  away, 
her  face  expressive  of  anxious  yearning.  TO  be  pre- 
sented to  the  Nation. 

THE  DWELLER  IN  THE  INNERMOST. 

Conscience,  winged,  dusk-faced  and  pensive, 
seated  facing,  within  a  glow  of  light;  on  her  fore- 
head she  bears  a  shining  star,  and  on  her  lap  lie 
the  arrows  that  pierce  through  all  disguise,  and 
the  trumpet  which  proclaims  truth  to  the  world. 

To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

THE  MESSENGER. 

A  man,  worn  with  suffering,  leans  back  in  his 
chair;  at  his  side  lie  the  insignia  of  the  various 

[156] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

arts,  now  of  no  more  avail ;  and  near  him  stands 
the  Messenger  of  Death,  who,  holding  an  infant 
on  her  left  arm,  touches  him  with  her  right  hand 

and  bids  him  COme.     To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

THE  COURT  OF  DEATH. 

Death,  the  sovereign  power,  holding  in  her  lap 
an  infant  form  that  has  been  claimed  before  its 
life  had  well  begun,  a  symbol  that  the  beginning 
and  end  of  life  lie  in  the  lap  of  Death,  is  seated 
enthroned  upon  the  ruins  of  the  world.  On 
either  side  stand  two  angel  figures,  guarding  the 
portals  of  the  Unknown  beyond  the  grave,  and 
at  her  feet  are  gathered  all  sorts  and  conditions 
of  men,  who  have  come  as  faithful  subjects  to 
render  their  last  homage  to  the  Universal  Queen. 
The  warrior,  still  in  the  pride  of  strength  and 
manhood,  loyally  surrenders  his  sword;  the  no- 
bleman, with  bowed  head,  lays  down  his  coro- 
net; and  the  poor  cripple  comes  to  crave  of 
Death  a  final  respite  from  pain.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  throne  a  young  girl,  wearied  with 
suffering,  rests  her  head,  as  though  in  sleep, 
upon  the  winding  sheet,  while  a  little  child  half, 
in  sport,  draws  it  over  his  head,  and  the  Lion,  as 
the  type  of  physical  power,  crouches  at  Death's 

feet.      To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRISTIANITY. 

The  Spirit  of  Christianity  is  represented  by 
an  impersonal  figure,  clothed  in  red  garments 

[157] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

and  enthroned  in  the  clouds,  who  enfolds  the 
children  of  all  creeds  and  races  within  one  man- 
tle, and  looking  up  to  heaven,  pleads  on  behalf 
of  suffering  humanity.  Painted  in  1875.  To  be 

presented  to  the  Nation. 

LOVE  TRIUMPHANT. 

Time  and  Death,  having  travelled  together 
through  the  ages,  are  in  the  end  overthrown. 
Love  alone  arises  on  immortal  wing. 

LOVE  AND  LIFE. 

Love,  with  protecting  half-outstretched  wings, 
leading  Life,  represented  as  a  trembling  and 
fragile  maiden,  up  the  rocky  mountain  side,  and 
helping  her  gently  over  the  rugged  ground.  He 
looks  down  on  her,  his  face  full  of  tender  care, 
whilst  she,  with  upturned  face,  trusts  herself  en- 
tirely tO  his  guidance.  To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 

CHAOS. 

The  intention  of  this  picture  is  to  convey  in 
the  language  of  symbol  an  idea  of  the  passing  of 
our  planet  from  chaos  to  order.  The  condition 
of  the  several  periods  is  more  or  less  distinctly 
described  by  the  movement  of  the  presiding 
genius  of  each;  and  the  modifications  may  be 
traced  from  the  earliest  periods,  on  the  left  of 
the  picture,  to  where  the  reposeful  giants  on  the 
right  are  suggestive  of  a  state  of  stability  and  or- 
der. From  the  center  of  the  picture,  at  first  sep- 
arately, denoting  an  interrupted  record,  the 

[158] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

forms  representing  the  cycles  of  time  become 
linked  in  an  unbroken  chain,  to  indicate  a  per- 
ception of  the  permanent  establishment  of  order. 

To  be  presented  to  the  Nation. 


[159] 


PLATE  XXXI 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS,  aged  17 


PLATE  XXXII 


From  the  painting  in  the  Art  Institute,  Chicago  DR.  JOACHIM 


PLATE  XXX  IT  I 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


LORD  TENNYSON 


'    PLATE  XXXIV 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


RUSSELL  GURXEY 


PLATE  XXXV 


Photograph   by  F.  Hollyer 


HOPE 


w 

H 

S 

P 

a 


a? 
fti 


PLATE  XXXVII 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


THE  COURT  OF  DEATH 


PLATE  XXXVIII 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


MATTHEW  ARXOLD 


PLATE  XXXIX 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


ROBERT  BROWNING 


PLATE  XL 


THE  DWELLER  IN  THE  INNERMOST 
Photograph  by  F.  Holly er 


PLATE  XLI 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


GEORGE  MEREDITH 


PLATE  XLII 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


LORD  LYTTON 


PLATE  XLIII 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


WILLIAM  MORRIS 


PLATE  XLIV 


[Portrait  by  himself]  GEORGE  FREDERICK  WATTS 


PLATE  XLV 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer       GOOD   LUCK  TO  YOUR  FISHING 


LECTURE   SIXTH 

EDWARD  BURNE- JONES. 


HE  recently  published  Memor- 
ials of  Edward  Burne-Jones, 
by  his  widow,  if  not  an  epoch- 
making  biography,  is  cer- 
tainly a  monumental  one.  It 
is  conspicuous  in  many  ways, 
amongst  the  lives  of  nine- 
teenth-century artists  in  England ;  and  is  unique 
as  the  work  of  a  woman-writer,  the  wife  of  the 
remarkable  man  whom  it  memorialises.  It  is  al- 
ways difficult  for  a  near  relative  to  do  justice  to  the 
life  of  a  great  man,  saying  neither  too  much  nor 
too  little;  and  if,  in  the  memoirs  of  the  late  Bishop 
of  London,  and  the  author  of  John  Inglesant,  by 
their  respective  widows,  we  have  exceptionally  able 
biographies,  it  is  no  slight  to  them  to  place  these 
volumes  by  Lady  Burne-Jones  on  a  still  higher 
level  of  interest  and  of  literary  merit.  They  are 
full  of  brightness,  illumination,  pathos,  abundant 
humour,  and  verisimilitude  from  first  to  last. 
There  is  no  effeminacy  in  them,  or  gush  of  super- 

[161] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

fluous  praise,  but  a  dispassionate  record  of  fact, 
set  forth  in  a  brilliant  and  most  charming  man- 
ner. 

Copious  extracts  from  letters  throw  a  flood  of 
light  upon  the  writer  of  them,  and  on  many  con- 
temporary artists,  poets,  and  literary  men  be- 
longing to  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. Although  an  original  artist's  work  is 
always  his  best  memorial,  Lady  Burne-Jones 
is  to  be  congratulated  on  raising  so  noble  a  liter- 
ary monument  to  her  husband. 

Its  primary  interest  to  us,  and  to  posterity,  is 
the  disclosure  it  gives  of  the  character  and  art  of 
one  so  singularly  gifted  and  original  as  Burne- 
Jones  was;  but  it  is  also  extremely  valuable  for 
the  light  it  casts  on  the  men  by  whom  he  was 
surrounded,  whom  he  attracted  and  influenced; 
on  their  genius,  their  insight,  and  their  friend- 
ships. It  was  indeed  a  remarkable  company 
of  illustrious  and  unenvious  men,  each  of  whom 
rejoiced  in  the  achievements  of  all  the  rest.  It 
may  be  doubted  if  there  ever  was  such  a  group  in 
the  previous  annals  of  Art.  There  was  certainly 
nothing  like  it  in  Greece  and  Rome,  and  through 
the  long  developments  of  Mediaevalism.  Ed- 
ward Burne-Jones,  William  Morris,  Dante  Ga- 
briel Rossetti,  Ford  Maddox  Brown,  Holman 
Hunt,  John  Ruskin,  George  Frederick  Watts, 
William  Bell  Scott,  with  many  another  kindred 
spirit,  were  a  right  noble  brotherhood  of  workers 

[162] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

for  the  beautiful;  while  outside  the  special  artist- 
group  were  some  distinguished  men,  with  whom 
the  reader  of  these  Memorials  becomes  familiar. 
The  camaraderie  amongst  these  friends  was 
great;  and  although  their  influence  on  the  future 
was  not  equal  to  that  which  Coleridge,  Words- 
worth, and  Lamb  exerted  at  an  earlier  date — in 
the  poetic  springtime  of  the  nineteenth  century — 
it  was  perhaps  more  intense,  one  upon  another, 
within  the  circle  itself.  The  fact  is  that  the  art- 
production  of  Burne- Jones  and  his  friends  was 
poetic  work;  and  the  movement  which  they  in- 
augurated, and  helped  forward,  was  similar  in 
character  to  that  literary  renaissance  for  which 
the  Lyrical  Ballads  prepared  the  way.  Both  of 
them  were  stupendous  and  inevitable  reactions 
from  past  convention  and  commonplace. 

The  story  of  Burne- Jones'  life  has  now  been 
told  with  minute  and  loving  care.  His  child- 
hood and  youth  at  Birmingham,  his  early  rever- 
ence, his  loneliness,  his  Celtic  inheritance,  his 
sense  of  the  mystery  of  the  world,  his  vivid  ap- 
preciation of  romance,  his  precocious  and 
abounding  humour,  are  all  recorded,  JEsop's 
Fables  was  the  first  book  he  loved,  his  "treasure- 
house."  He  rose  rapidly  at  King  Edward's 
Grammar  School  till  he  was  head  of  the  English 
department,  and  got  to  love  his  books  as  Eliza- 
beth Barrett  Browning  did,  Ossian  and  Burger 
being  early  friends ;  while  his  love  of  fun  and  boy- 

[163] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

ish  pranks  was  early  developed.  At  the  age  of 
fifteen  a  quaint  religiousness  comes  out  in  his  let- 
ters to  his  cousin,  written  from  the  "urbs  fumi." 
He  went  to  Hereford,  where  the  influence  of  the 
Cathedral  and  its  services  told  upon  him,  and 
led  him  to  think  of  taking  clerical  orders.  An- 
other visit  to  London,  however,  opened  his  mind 
simultaneously  to  the  wonders  of  ancient  Art  in 
the  British  Museum.  The  books  which  most 
influenced  him  were  those  of  Scott,  Dickens, 
Humboldt,  and  Newman.  In  his  twentieth 
year  he  entered  Exeter  College,  Oxford;  and, 
although  he  did  not  work  in  the  beaten  tracks  of 
scholarship  so  much  as  in  the  collateral  paths  of 
literature,  he  imbibed  some  of  the  best  things  in 
the  Greek  and  Roman  classics,  without  being 
captivated  by  them.  Oxford  did  much  for  him 
indirectly;  but  so  far  as  fellowship  went,  he  was 
at  first  almost  an  alien,  except  for  the  one  man 
who  became  his  closest  life-long  friend,  William 
Morris. 

As  he  read  with  Morris,  his  first  ambition  was 
to  take  part  in  forming  a  new  community,  which 
would  be  devoted  to  "the  organised  production 
of  religious  art."  Simultaneously  his  sense  of 
humour  increased,  and  he  wrote  delightful  letters 
personifying  other  people.  The  one  he  sent  to 
his  friend  Price — in  the  character  of  "Edward 
Cardinal  de  Birmingham'* — has  not  been  ex- 
celled in  juvenile  composition.  But  in  the 

[164] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

midst  of  Oxford  scholarship  he  was  disturbed, 
almost  as  keenly  as  Wordsworth  was  amongst 
the  Cambridge  wranglers,  by 

A  strangeness  in  the  mind, 
A  feeling  that  he  was  not  for  that  hour, 
Nor  for  that  place. 

It  was  not  the  subject-matter  of  what  was 
taught  that  made  him  desolate,  but  the  way  in 
which  it  was  imparted.  The  city  itself — with 
its  wondrous  medievalism — attracted  him,  and 
he  had  a  strong  natural  bent  towards  Logic  and 
Metaphysics;  but  his  cravings  were  not  satisfied. 
And  in  these  undergraduate  days  he  came  in- 
creasingly under  the  influence  of  one  who  was 
almost  a  contemporary,  and  supremely  original 
amongst  the  teachers  of  the  hour,  John  Ruskin. 
In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Price  he  said:  "In  aesthetics 
he  (Ruskin)  is  an  authority.  Above  all  things 
I  recommend  you  to  read  him.  He  will  do  you 
more  good  in  twenty  chapters  than  all  the  math- 
ematics ever  written/'  (Vol.  I.,  p.  79.)  Again, 
in  August,  1853:  "Ruskin  has  published  the 
second  volume  of  his  Stones  of  Venice,  entitled 
'Sea  Stories/  His  style  is  more  wonderful  than 
ever;  the  most  persuasive  oratory  I  ever  read. 
His  acme  is  to  come.  There  never  was  such  a 
mind  and  soul  so  fused  through  language  yet. 
It  has  the  brilliance  of  Jeffrey,  the  eloquence  of 
Macaulay,  the  diction  of  Shakespeare  (had  he 
written  in  prose),  and  the  fire  of  Ruskin;  we 

[165] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

can  find  no  other."     (Vol.  I.,  p.  85.) 

At  length,  in  his  twenty-second  year,  the  foun- 
tains of  the  great  deep  were  broken  up  for  him, 
and  he  writes  from  Oxford:  "I  have  just  come 
in  from  my  terminal  pilgrimage  to  Godstow 
ruins,  and  the  burial-place  of  fair  Rosamond. 
The  day  has  gone  down  magnificently;  all  by 
the  river's  bank  I  came  back  in  a  delirium  of 
joy,  the  land  was  so  enchanted  with  bright  col- 
ours, blue  and  purple  in  the  sky,  shot  over  with  a 
dust  of  golden  shower,  and  in  the  water  a  mir- 
rored counterpart,  ruffled  by  a  light  west  wind— 
and  in  my  mind  pictures  of  the  old  days,  the 
abbeys  and  long  processions  of  the  faithful 
banners  of  the  cross,  copes  and  crosiers,  gay 
knights  and  ladies  by  the  river  bank,  hawking- 
parties,  and  all  the  pageantry  of  the  golden  age- 
it  made  me  feel  so  wild  and  mad,  I  had  to  throw 
stones  into  the  water  to  break  the  dream!  I 
never  remember  having  had  such  an  unutterable 
ecstasy;  it  was  quite  painful  with  intensity,  as  if 
my  forehead  would  burst.  I  get  frightened  of 
indulging  now  in  dreams,  so  vivid  that  they  seem 
recollections  rather  than  imaginations,  but  they 
seldom  last  more  than  half  an  hour;  and  the 
sound  of  earthly  bells  in  the  distance,  and  pres- 
ently the  wreathing  of  steam  upon  the  trees 
where  the  railway  runs,  calls  me  back  to  the 
years  I  cannot  convince  myself  of  living  in." 
(Vol.  I.,  pp.  97-8.) 

[166] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 
Here  were 

Those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things 
Falling,  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 

as  truly  as  in  Wordsworth's  case. 

In  a  letter  of  the  same  year,  written  to  his 
friend  MacLaren,  he  gives  an  account  of  a  visit 
to  the  Royal  Academy,  in  which  we  see  the  signs 
of  new  insight  into  Art.  He  criticises  Landseer, 
Maclise,  and  others,  for  the  kind  of  subjects  to 
which  they  confined  themselves:  "What  with 
silly,  unmeaning  subjects,  and  those  of  more 
questionable  character  devoted  to  the  hero- 
worship  of  traitors  and  robbers,  or  the  prettiness 
and  romance  of  a  heartless  religion,  I  saw  that 
the  Pre-Raphaelites  had  indeed  come  at  a  time 
when  there  was  need  of  them."  (P.  101.) 
And  during  the  same  time  in  London  he  thus 
describes  a  visit  to  the  Crystal  Palace:  "I  had 
only  time  to  visit  Sydenham  once.  As  I  looked 
at  it  in  its  gigantic  wearisomeness,  in  its 
length  of  cheerless  monotony,  iron  and  glass, 
glass  and  iron,  I  grew  more  and  more  con- 
vinced of  the  powerlessness  of  such  material 
to  effect  an  Architecture.  Its  only  claim  to  our 
admiration  consists  in  its  size,  not  in  those  ele- 
ments in  which  lies  the  true  principle  of  appreci- 
ation, form  and  colour;  its  form  is  necessarily 
rigid  and  mechanical,  its  colour  simple  trans- 

[167] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

parency  and  a  painfully  dazzling  reflection;  it  is 
a  fit  apartment  for  fragrant  shrubs,  trickling 
fountains,  muslin -de-laines,  eau-de-Cologne, 
Grecian  statues,  strawberry  ices  and  brass 
bands — but  give  me  'The  Light  of  the  World,' 
and  the  apse  of  Westminster."  (Vol.  I.,  p.  101.) 
N.  B.  that  this  is  the  language  of  a  youth  of 
twenty-two,  in  the  year  1855. 

His  discovery  that  the  clerical  life  was  not  one 
that  either  he  or  Morris  should  enter  was  made 
gradually,  and  with  no  revulsion  from  his  old 
ideal  even  of  a  religious  brotherhood,  such  as 
"the  monastery"  he  once  dreamt  of;  but  he 
found  that  a  magnet  which  they  did  not  create, 
but  only  felt,  drew  them  in  a  different  direction. 
I  think,  however,  that  the  unhappy  expulsion  of 
Frederick  Denison  Maurice  from  King's  College, 
and  the  traditionalism  of  many  in  the  English 
Church,  weakened  the  hold  which  the  latter  once' 
had  upon  him ;  while  a  more  inward  religion  was 
developing  in  him  apace — a  religion,  not  with 
Art  attendant  as  a  handmaiden,  but  interpene- 
trated with  it  over  its  entire  area,  and  entered  by 
"the  gate  called  Beautiful."  His  character,  too, 
was  now  growing  in  nobility,  not  passing  through 
a  period  of  Sturm  und  Drang,  but  evolving  fea- 
tures of  rare  dignity,  self-effacement,  reserve, 
and  consideration  for  others.  No  reader  of 
these  volumes  can  fail  to  note  such  character- 
istics of  the  man.  How  few  have  felt,  as  he  did 

[168] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

in  his  twenty-second  year  at  Oxford:  "I  hold  it 
a  point  of  honour  with  every  gentleman  to  con- 
ceal himself,  and  to  ease  life  for  everyone." 

He  thought  of  a  military  life,  but  was  rejected 
as  unfit  for  the  army  on  the  score  of  health.  He 
went  instead  to  London,  and  soon  got  to  know 
the  charm  of  the  art-brotherhood  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelites.  But  a  still  richer  experience  awaited 
him. 

In  July,  1855,  he  made  his  first  visit  to  the 
Continent  with  Morris.  They  went  from  Bou- 
logne, by  Abbeville  to  Amiens  and  Beauvais. 
Of  the  Cathedral  of  Beauvais  he  wrote,  so  late 
as  the  year  1892:  "Do  you  know  Beauvais, 
which  is  the  most  beautiful  church  in  the  world  ? 
It  is  thirty-seven  years  since  I  saw  it,  and  I  re- 
member it  all — and  the  processions — and  the 
trombones — and  the  ancient  singing,  more  beau- 
tiful than  anything  I  had  ever  heard,  and  I 
think  I  have  never  heard  the  like  since;  and  the 
great  organ  that  made  the  air  tremble — and  the 
greater  organ  that  pealed  out  suddenly,  and  I 
thought  the  day  of  judgment  had  come — and 
the  roof,  and  the  long  lights  that  are  the  most 
graceful  things  man  has  ever  made.  What  a 
day  it  was,  and  how  alive  I  was,  and  young;  and 
a  blue  dragonfly  stood  still  in  the  air  so  long  that 
I  could  have  painted  him.  .  .  If  I  took  account 
of  my  life,  and  the  days  in  it  that  most  went  to 
make  me,  Sunday  at  Beauvais  would  be  the 

[169] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

first  day  of  my  creation."  (Vol.  I.,  p.  113.)  In 
1897  ne  wrote  of  "  the  holy  beauty  of  vast  Beau- 
vais  church." 

They  went  on  in  that  year  (1855)  to  Paris,  to 
see  the  Louvre;  returning  by  Chartres,  and 
Rouen,  to  Havre;  and  it  was  "while  walking  on 
the  quay  at  Havre  at  night  that  we  (Morris  and 
himself)  resolved  definitely  that  we  would  begin 
a  life  of  Art,  that  he  (Morris)  should  be  an  arch- 
itect, and  I  should  be  a  painter.  That  was  the 
most  memorable  night  of  my  life."  On  his  re- 
turn to  England  he  went  to  Oxford  and  Bir- 
mingham, Poetry  as  well  as  Art  engrossing  him. 
He  read  the  poets  and  novelists,  for  their  own 
sakes,  but  also  that  they  might  inspire  him  with 
subjects  for  his  art.  His  first  work  in  his  chosen 
field  was  a  series  of  designs  made  for  Mr.  Mac- 
Laren's  Fairy  Family;  and  he  became  one  of  a 
brotherhood  of  seven,  who  wrote  for  the  Oxford 
and  Cambridge  Magazine. 

He  returned  to  Oxford  to  find  it  devoid  of 
life.  Its  greatness  was  that  of  the  past.  When 
he  came  to  see — as  Morris  did — that  to  take  or- 
ders was  not  his  vocation,  and  that  for  both  of 
them  Art  and  Literature  were  their  calling,  he 
went  up  to  London;  longing  to  meet  the  author 
of  The  Blessed  Damosel,  the  man  who  had  drawn 
the  Maids  of  Elfenmere.  He  wrote  to  Ruskin, 
and  received  a  reply  which  led  him  to  say:  "I 
am  not  E.  B.  J.  any  longer.  I'm  the  man  who 

[170] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

wrote  to  Ruskin,  and  got  an  answer  by  return!'* 
The  influence  of  all  the  men  of  the  renaissance, 
of  Carlyle  and  Kingsley  and  Ruskin,  of  Malory's 
Morte  d'  Arthur,  the  study  of  the  poets  Chaucer 
Tennyson  and  Browning,  changed  his  ideal. 
More  especially  the  sudden  hero-worship  of 
Dante  Rossetti  as  art-worker  and  colourist,  the 
first  sight  of  him  at  the  Working  Men's  College 
in  Great  Ormond  Street,  and  their  subsequent 
meeting  and  interview,  decided  his  career  for 
Burne- Jones.  He  was  allowed  to  visit  Ros- 
setti's  studio,  and  "to  see  him  at  work  some 
thirty  times."  It  was  a  momentous  time  in  the 
evolution  of  the  character  of  each;  and  we  can- 
not exaggerate  the  rare  wisdom  of  Rossetti  in 
letting  the  genius  of  his  friend  develop  in  its  own 
way,  without  his  interference.  His  quick  per- 
ception of  what  that  genius  might  produce 
showed  him  that  to  prescribe  the  lines  on  which 
it  should  work  would  be  detrimental. 

Every  young  artist  runs  the  risk  of  being  de- 
flected from  the  pathway  prescribed  to  him  by 
nature,  through  excessive  hero-worship,  and  of 
thus  becoming  a  copyist  instead  of  an  originator. 
But  when  Burne- Jones  subsequently  imbibed 
the  spirit  and  influence  of  some  of  his  contem- 
poraries— notably  that  of  Watts — he  improved 
both  in  his  drawing  and  his  colour. 

His  own  account  of  the  first  days  with  Rossetti 
is  one  of  the  most  memorable  things  he  wrote. 

[171] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

"How  we  worshipped  him!  He  was  an  in- 
spirer  of  others,  a  finder  of  hidden  things,  a 
revealer  of  light  and  discoverer  of  beauty,  who 
fired  hundreds  with  the  same  enthusiasm,  and 
kindled  the  divine  spark  in  every  breast.  He 
it  was  who  first  taught  me  not  to  be  afraid  of  my 
own  ideas,  but  always  be  myself,  and  do  the 
thing  I  thought  best.  And  then  how  boundless 
was  his  generosity,  how  royal  the  praise  with 
which  he  blessed  our  feeble  efforts,  how  untiring 
the  pains  he  took  to  help  us  ....  of  which  a 
beautiful  and  golden  record  is  somewhere  writ- 
ten. What  a  world  it  was!  and  he  the  centre 
and  light  of  it  all!" 

At  an  earlier  date  he  had  written  to  a  friend: 
"Don't  Be  afraid  of  being  independent  in 
thought.  It  is  a  prerogative  of  man.  This  is 
the  time  for  us  to  think  highly  of  our  species, 
to  dream  of  development  and  the  divinity  of 
mind;  we  shall  soon  wash  away  fancies  in  get- 
ting our  beard.  It  is  a  glorious  thought  that  in 
our  nature's  ruin  we  yet  possess  our  identity, 
and  stand  isolated  as  beings  with  mind.  It  is 
grand  to  be  in  such  peril  as  we  are,  to  be  born 
with  free  will,"  etc.  (Vol.  I.,  p.  89.) 

He  also  said  that  what  Rossetti  taught  him 
was  "to  design  perpetually,  to  seek  no  popu- 
larity." And  again:  "I  never  knew  anything 
that  could  encourage  the  superstition  that  some 
people  have  that  the  gods  are  jealous  of  the  pos- 

[172] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

sible  achievements  of  great  men,  as  in  Rossetti's 
case.  Everything  was  ready  for  the  making  of 
a  glorious  creature — the  perfect  hunger  for  Ro- 
mance that  was  spread  abroad  in  the  world  at 
the  time  when  he  came  into  it,  the  mingling  of 
blood  in  him,  his  own  admiration  and  discrimi- 
nation for  all  that  was  splendid,  his  surround- 
ings, and  the  things  he  was  brought  up  among, 
the  people  of  all  sorts  of  cultivation  that  he  must 
have  known  from  his  earliest  days — never  was 
anyone  so  started,  so  ready  for  a  great  career." 
(Vol.  I.,  pp.  149-50.) 

A  long  article  might  be  written  on  Burne- 
Jones'  appreciation  of  his  brother  artists  and 
contemporary  poets — as  this,  of  a  veteran  com- 
rade, still  happily  among  us,  written  in  1856: 
"A  glorious  day  it  has  been,  one  to  be  remem- 
bered by  the  side  of  the  most  notable  in  my  life, 
for  whilst  I  was  painting,  and  Morris  making 
drawings  in  Rossetti's  studio,  there  entered  the 
greatest  genius  that  is  on  earth  alive,  William 
Holman  Hunt — such  a  grand-looking  fellow, 
such  a  splendour  of  a  man,  with  a  great  wiry 
golden  beard,  and  faithful  violet  eyes — oh,  such 
a  man!  And  Rossetti  sat  by  him.  *  *  * 
and  all  evening  through  Rossetti  talked  most 
gloriously,  such  talk  as  I  do  not  believe  any  man 
could  talk  beside  him."  (Vol.  I.,  p.  139.) 

In  March,  1857,  he  wrote  thus  of  Browning 
to  Miss  Salt: 

[173] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

"You  won't  at  first  like  him  much,  perhaps. 
He  is  too  different  from  anyone  else  to  be  liked  at 
first  sight  by  most,  but  he  is  the  deepest  and  in- 
tensest  of  all  poets,  writes  lower  down  in  the 
dark  heart  of  things,  rises  up  to  the  clear  surface 
less  often.  Oh,  how  ten  lines  of  him  help  one! 
Paraceslus,  and  the  Soul's  Tragedy,  and  King 
Victor,  and  the  Unknown  Painter,  and  the  fifty 
Men  and  Women  that  follow,  all  sung  out  as  if 
Browning  sat  continually  at  the  roots  of  human 
life,  and  saw  all  things."  (Vol.  I.,  p.  153.) 

In  the  same  letter,  after  mentioning  Ruskin, 
he  says:  "One  seems  to  want  no  guide  now, 
but  to  flow  down  with  the  course  of  great  spirits 
new  and  old,  and  understand  them  without  an 
interpreter." 

This  is  on  Tennyson,  written  after  his  funeral 
in  the  Abbey: 

"  There  should  have  been  street  music,  some 
soldiers  and  some  trumpets,  and  bells  muffled  all 
over  London,  and  rumbling  drums.  But,  as  he 
sleeps  by  Chaucer,  I  daresay  they  woke  up  and 
had  talks  in  the  night,  and  I  have  spent  much  of 
the  early  dark  mornings  making  up  talks  for 
them.  I  suppose  he'll  be  hurrying  off  to  Virgil 


soon." 


And  as  a  final  sample  of  the  charm  of  his 
correspondence,  take  this,  written  in  his  twenty- 
fourth  year  to  a  girl  who  became  his  sister-in- 
law:  "I  want  to  teach  you  so  much  History 

[174] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

that  your  sympathy  may  grow  continually 
wider,  and  you  may  be  able  to  feel  and  realise 
past  generations  of  men  just  as  you  do  the  pres- 
ent, sorrowing  for  them  when  they  failed,  and 
triumphing  with  them  when  they  prevailed;  for 
I  find  this  one  conviction  never  changing  but 
always  increasing,  that  one  cannot  live  a  life 
manfully  or  truthfully  without  a  very  wide  world 
of  sympathy,  and  love,  to  exercise  it  in.  So  long 
as  I  had  no  heroes,  but  all  times  and  generations 
of  the  past  and  present  years  were  as  one  dead 
level  of  interest  or  indifference,  I  then  knew 
nothing  truly  or  enjoyed  deeply,  nor  loved 
strongly ;  but  now  that  I  have  set  aside  my  heroes 
for  peculiar  reverence — all  such  as  have  been 
highly  blessed  with  imagination,  and  have  la- 
boured nobly  and  fought  valiantly,  hundreds  of 
them  up  and  down  great  centuries — since  then 
I  have  seen  things  more  truly  than  ever  before." 
(Vol.  L,  pp.  143-4-) 

To  trace  the  sure  though  gradual  rise  of  Burne- 
Jones  as  a  painter  is  perhaps  less  necessary  than 
to  trace  the  expansion  of  his  friendships  and  his 
influence.  But  the  recognition  of  his  genius,  his 
success  after  reiterated  discouragement,  was  the 
reward  of  patient  toil  and  unflinching  loyalty  to 
his  ideals.  And  to  the  historian  of  British  art 
in  the  nineteenth  century  the  chief  thing  to  be 
noted  is  the  way  in  which  he  has  educated  two 
generations  of  his  fellow  -  countrymen.  He 

[175] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

worked  joyously  when  he  was  very  poor,  feeling 
that  outward  poverty  was  no  evil  and  no  dis- 
grace, when  the  riches  were  within.  He  scarcely 
ever  felt  it  an  impediment  to  work,  while  he 
scorned  everything  that  was  sordid,  and  de- 
spised a  merely  ephemeral  and  spectacular  suc- 
cess. Nor  must  we  forget  in  this  connection  his 
noble  ethical  teaching;  both  in  his  familiar  let- 
ters, his  conversation,  and  through  the  symbol- 
ism of  his  art. 

No  one  who  has  once  come  under  the  spell  of 
his  genius  can  afterwards  care  for  the  trivial  or 
sentimental,  scarcely  even  for  the  commonplace. 
His  painting  was  never  didactic,  any  more  than 
his  letters  were;  but  he  taught  by  opening  up  a 
new  world  of  ideality,  with  far-reaching  vistas  of 
suggestion  on  every  side.  Then  he  was  so  sim- 
ple at  times,  so  quaintly  humorous;  the  "airy 
fairy"  grace  of  his  fancy  blending  with  the  royal 
power  of  his  imagination,  and  both  together 
leading  him  to  a  truly  imperial  constructiveness, 
in  which  he  stood  alone.  He  was  never  satisfied 
with  what  he  had  achieved;  and  probably  none 
of  our  modern  artists  ever  worked  so  easily 
with  so  many  different  kinds  of  material;  oil, 
water-colour,  glass,  tapestry,  fresco-work,  cray- 
on, pen  and  ink.  His  perpetual  aspiration  was 
also  seen  in  his  habit  of  having  many  pictures  in 
his  studio,  at  different  stages  of  progress  towards 
completion;  like  some  authors  who  have  habitu- 

[176] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

ally  several  books  in  hand,  at  which  they  take 
turns,  setting  one  aside  and  taking  up  another 
for  a  rest.  In  all  his  work  he  saw  the  possibility 
of  new  development,  fresh  attainment  in  store. 
Dissatisfaction  accompanied  all  his  successes, 
but  this  contained  a  prophecy  of  future  realisa- 
tion. We  see  it  in  his  Love  Among  the  Ruins.  It 
comes  out  in  the  Godhead  Fires,  in  the  Pygmalion 
series,  and  in  Love  Leading  the  Pilgrim. 

And  so,  if  there  is  a  good  deal  of  sadness, 
there  is  also  a  preponderance  of  joy  in  his  work. 
Much  is  disclosed,  but  more  is  kept  back  in  a 
sublime  reserve,  and  only  hinted  at,  as  was  the 
case  in  all  the  noblest  art  of  Watts.  Nothing  is 
obtruded ;  there  is  no  pronouncement  or  parade. 
The  simple  ideality  of  some  of  his  single  figures, 
such  as  Fespertina  Quies,  or  Aurora,  or  The 
Wood-Nymph,  is  unrivalled;  and  no  modern 
British  artists,  except  Watts  and  Rossetti, 
were  so  far  removed  from  the  photographic 
world  of  the  actual.  None  ever  worked  more 
sedulously  toward  the  ideal;  and  so,  even 
when  landscape  is  brought  in  for  a  background — 
as  in  Green  Summer,  or  Fenus's  Mirror — we 
have  not  a  reproduction  of  the  actual,  but  its 
idealisation.  Therefore  it  is  that,  with  all  the 
weird  elements  of  his  genius  eliminated,  we  find 
that  Burne- Jones  invested  everything  he  touched 
with  an  occult  radiance,  a  joyous  poetry,  a  far- 
off  mysterious  significance,  helping  us  to  see  the 

[177] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

highest  types  of  Beauty  through  the  veil  of  won- 
drous allegory. 

It  is  easy  to  criticise  the  sameness  of  type  in 
his  woman's  faces,  but  the  same  may  be  said  of 
almost  every  great  artist;  and  Burne- Jones* 
typical  woman-face  is  superlatively  lovely. 
Unlike  the  common  monotonous  reality  that  we 
usually  see,  it  is  at  once  a  glorification  of  the  act- 
ual, and  a  revelation  of  what  transcends  it. 
There  was  a  delightful  saying  of  his,  which 
many  of  his  contemporaries  would  endorse — 
and  which  applies  to  much  beyond  the  sphere  of 
plastic  art — "  When  is  a  picture  finished  ?  Nev- 
er, I  think;  and  it  is  a  symbol  of  life  itself  in  that 
way;  so  when  I  say  it  is  finished  I  mean  it  is  cut 
off,  and  must  go  away."  He  used  to  add  that 
it  was  only  the  van  coming  to  take  it  away  that 
finished  a  picture  for  him. 

There  is  no  need  to  enlarge  on  his  work  in 
starting  the  Art  Company,  along  with  Morris 
and  his  friends,  and  the  fortunes  of  the  com- 
pany, which  has  done  so  much  for  the  refine- 
ment of  decorative  art  in  Britain.  But  his  con- 
stant and  strenuous  love  of  work,  his  finding  his 
best  recreation  within  his  own  studio,  is  note- 
worthy. He  agreed  with  the  poet  who  wrote: 

Work,  work,  work. 
"Tis  better  than  what  you  work  to  get. 

And  he  once  said:  "I  thank  the  Lord  in  heaven 
He  gave  me  a  savage  passion  for  work."  His 

[178] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

knowledge  and  love  of  flowers  was  another 
memorable  thing;  but  it  is  on  the  man  and  his 
work  that  emphasis  must  be  mainly  laid.  A 
discriminative  writer  in  Blackwood's  Magazine 
once  called  attention  to  his  affinity  in  some 
things  with  Wordsworth.  "They  have  much  in 
common.  The  repose  of  mind,  the  sincerity  and 
sobriety  of  temper,  the  sense  of  the  infinite  in 
simple  things;  all  these  and  other  points  they 
touch."  This  is  true,  but  it  is  of  what  is  dis- 
tinctive in  him  that  we  are  in  search;  and  one 
thing  comes  out  in  an  early  letter,  which  he  wrote 
in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  to  that  kind  Miss  Samp- 
son who  had  looked  after  him  from  infancy: 
"Don't  let  any  person  persuade  you  that  you 
have  been  a  fool  for  not  looking  after  your  own 
interests.  God  doesn't  call  such  people  fools. 
It's  right  to  do  it,  but  it's  not  wrong  not  to  do  it. 
I  have  worked  very  hard  at  Art  for  two  years, 
and  find  it  difficult  to  live;  but  there  are  so  many 
things  to  be  grateful  for,  that  it  is  not  right  to 
name  anything  as  unfortunate."  (Vol.  I.,  p.  185.) 
Mention  must  be  made  of  the  wonderful  effect 
of  foreign  travel  upon  him,  especially  of  his  visits 
to  Italy,  of  the  way  in  which  he  instinctively  as- 
similated the  best  things  in  mediaeval  art,  and 
at  once  felt  at  home  amongst  its  treasures.  As 
Browning  wrote, 

Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it  Italy. 

[179] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

as  Matthew  Arnold  felt,  "Every  year  in  which 
I  do  not  visit  Italy  is  a  year  lost;"  so  Burne- 
Jones  said,  "I  walk  about  in  London,  but  all 
the  while  I  live  in  Italy."  It  was  by  his  repro- 
duction of  the  spirit  of  the  great  Florentines  and 
Umbrians  that  he  taught  his  generation,  as 
others  wrote  of  them ;  and  he  thus  initiated  thou- 
sands into  the  secrets  of  Botticelli,  Luini,  Car- 
paccio,  Bellini,  as  much  as  Ruskin  did  by  his 
lectures  and  writings.  Not  that  he  failed  in 
description,  for  he  had  a  wonderfully  retentive 
memory,  and  the  way  in  which  he  unfolded  the 
excellence  of  pictures  at  Florence  to  Miss  Gra- 
ham, and  those  at  Venice  to  Miss  Gladstone, 
was  marvellously  vivid.  Mention  of  Ruskin 
recalls  their  temporary  misunderstanding.  There 
was,  however,  no  real  breach  at  any  time  with 
his  old  friend  and  teacher,  only  a  slight  differ- 
ence in  sundry  ideals,  because  the  art-impulse 
in  him  was  working  for  a  time  on  other  lines. 
He  felt  that,  to  unfold  character,  he  must  devote 
himself  to  the  delineation  of  the  human  form, 
and  therefore  to  the  study  of  draperies.  Ruskin 
wrote:  "Nothing  puzzles  me  more  than  the 
delight  that  painters  have  in  drawing  mere  folds 
of  drapery,  and  their  carelessness  about  the  folds 
of  water  and  clouds,  or  hills  and  branches. 
Why  should  the  tuckings  in  and  out  of  muslin 
be  eternally  interesting?"  (Vol.  II.,  p.  68.) 
Burne- Jones  wrote:  "He  [Ruskin]  quarrels  with 

[180] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

my  pictures,  and  I  with  his  writing;  and  there  is 
no  peace  between  us."  But,  so  soon  as  they 
again  met,  he  said:  "I  forgave  him  all  his  blas- 
phemy against  my  gods,  he  looked  so  good 
through  and  through."  And  this  is  how  Ruskin 
wrote  to  him,  after  a  return  from  Switzerland  in 
1863 :  "I  want  you  to  do  me  a  set  of  simple  line 
illustrations  of  mythology  and  figurative  crea- 
tures, to  be  engraved  and  to  make  a  lovely  book 
of  my  four  political  economy  papers  in  Fraser, 
with  a  bit  I'm  just  adding.  I  want  to  print  it 
beautifully,  and  I  want  a  Ceres  for  it,  and  a 
Proserpine,  and  a  Pluto,  and  a  Circe,  and  a 
Helen,  and  a  Tisiphone,  and  an  'Az/ay/oj,  and  a 
Prudentia,  and  a  Sapientia,  and  a  Temperantia, 
and  a  Fortitude,  and  a  Justitia,  and  a  Caritas, 
and  a  Fides,  and  a  Charybdis,  and  a  Scylla,  and 
a  Leucothea,  and  a  Portia,  and  a  Miranda,  and 
an  'Aperrjy  and  an  Ophelia,  and  a  Lady  Pov- 
erty, and  ever  so  many  people  more;  and  I'll 
have  them  all  engraved  so  beautifully — and 
then  I'll  cut  up  my  text  into  little  bits,  and  put  it 
all  about  them,  so  that  people  must  swallow  all 
at  once,  and  it  will  do  them  so  much  good. 
Please  think  of  it  directly."  (Vol.  I.,  pp. 
271-2.)  Now,  although  this,  if  taken  as  pre- 
scribed, might  have  given  to  most  people  a  very 
bad  fit  of  artistic  indigestion,  it  is  noteworthy 
as  showing  to  whom  Ruskin  turned  as  a  fellow- 
worker  in  the  domain  of  the  beautiful.  Not 

[181] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

less  interesting  is  the  correspondence  with  Rus- 
kin  about  Whitelands  College,  its  May  Queen, 
and  its  hawthorn  cross. 

Much  has  been  said  of  Burne- Jones'  inability 
to  work  along  with  brother-artists,  and  it  was 
true  of  some  of  them,  although  much  exagger- 
ated. What  he  most  prized  removed  him  from 
the  sphere  in  which  many  others  worked.  He 
broke  with  the  Old  Water  Colour  Society,  and 
with  the  Royal  Academy,  in  the  most  courteous 
way;  and  when  he  thought  the  management  of 
the  Grosvenor  Gallery  had  declined,  he  did  not 
scruple  to  say  so,  and  to  act  on  his  conviction. 
But  it  was  all  due  to  his  sense  of  "  the  high  call- 
ing" of  " creative  art."  The  same  ideal  which 
led  him  to  denounce  the  modern  "restorer" 
whether  of  buildings  or  of  pictures — the  tamper- 
ing with  the  glory  of  St.  Mark's  at  Venice,  and  the 
architectural  misconstruction  of  many  modern 
picture-galleries,  induced  him  to  discourage 
"loan  museums"  of  Art  in  provincial  cities, 
which  often  led  to  the  injury  or  loss  of  priceless 
things;  and  to  encourage  instead  the  local  estab- 
lishment of  "lasting  collections  of  works  of  Art," 
in  which  the  people  could  see  "the  best  copies 
procurable  of  the  recognised  masterpieces  of 
the  world  still  left  to  us."  Returning  to  the 
architectural  faults  of  picture-galleries,  he  in- 
sisted that  p'ctures  should  be  so  hung  as  to  admit 
the  light  most  favourable  to  them,  and  that  each 

[182] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

picture  should,  if  possible,  be  separated  from 
others  by  some  inches  of  space.  But  this  was 
quite  as  much  in  the  interest  of  the  spectator  as 
of  the  artist.  He  felt  strongly  that  some  of  the 
architects  of  our  galleries  were  to  blame  for  the 
results.  In  the  National  Portrait  Gallery,  for 
example,  how  impossible  it  was  to  see  Watts' 
portraits  to  advantage.  "They  seem  all  lumps 
of  paint  and  ribs  of  canvas.  There  is  no  chance 
of  a  ray  of  sentiment  penetrating  them."  (Vol. 
II.,  p.  79.) 

The  details  of  life  and  work  at  the  Grange  are 
lovingly  told  in  these  Memorials;  his  joy  in  his 
work,  and  in  the  many  friendships  which  ad- 
vancing years  brought  him,  and  confirmed. 
Visits  from  George  Eliot,  Charles  Norton,  Mad- 
ame Wagner,  and  many  others,  are  delightfully 
recorded;  and  their  appreciations  cast  light  on 
every  side.  It  is  thus  that  Mrs.  Lewis  wrote  of 
him:  "I  want  to  tell  you  that  your  work  makes 
life  larger  and  more  beautiful  to  me.  I  mean 
that  historical  life  of  all  the  world,  in  which  our 
little  personal  share  often  seems  a  mere  stand- 
ing-ground from  which  we  can  look  all  around, 
and  chiefly  backward.  Perhaps  the  work  has  a 
strain  of  special  sadness  in  it — perhaps  a  deeper 
sense  of  the  tremendous  outer  forces  which  urge 
us,  than  of  the  inner  impulses  towards  heroic 
struggle  and  achievement;  but  the  sadness  is  so 
inwrought  with  pure  elevating  sensibility  to  all 

[183] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

that  is  sweet  and  beautiful  in  the  story  of  man, 
and  in  the  face  of  the  earth,  that  it  can  no  more 
be  found  fault  with  than  the  sadness  of  midday, 
when  Pan  is  touchy,  like  the  rest  of  us." 

The  wealth  of  curious  dicta  on  many  of  the 
great  questions  of  the  ages  which  occur  in  these 
volumes,  scattered  amid  its  biographical  details, 
gives  us  some  rare  glimpses  into  the  character  of 
those  who  uttered  them,  and  turns  what  might 
have  been  a  mere  miscellany  of  dry  facts  into  a 
hortus  inclusus  of  wisdom.  While  "Morris 
never  faileth,  and  Ruskin  always  flourisheth," 
there  are  scores  of  others,  less  known  but  quite 
as  interesting,  to  whom  the  reader  is  introduced 
in  the  most  natural  and  delightful  manner. 

Much  light,  moreover,  is  cast  on  the  origin, 
progress,  and  completion  of  that  'great  series  of 
allegoric  pictures  in  which  Burne- Jones'  art  is 
enshrined,  and  a  separate  descriptive  article 
might  be  devoted  to  each  of  them.  There  was 
so  much  of  a  sane  realism  from  which  the  mystic 
idealism  sprang,  and  which  it  outsoared.  The 
man  who  wrote:  "I  was  born  at  Birmingham, 
but  Assisi  is  my  true  birthplace,"  had  by  that 
time  attained  to  his  artistic  majority;  and  he 
realised,  as  truly  as  Wordsworth  did,  that  his  vo- 
cation was  to  be  "a  teacher,  or  nothing;"  not 
a  doctrinaire  expounder,  but  a  symbolic  inter- 
preter of  truth.  We  may  go  back  to  one  of  the 
earlier  pictures  which  marks  his  discovery  of  the 

[184] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

path  in  which  his  work  was  to  be  carried  on, 
remembering  that  he  wrote  thus  to  a  friend:  "I 
mean  by  a  picture  a  beautiful  romantic  dream 
of  something  that  never  was,  never  will  be,  in  a 
light  that  never  shone,  in  a  land  no  one  can  de- 
fine or  remember,  only  desire;  the  form  divinely 
beautiful."  It  is  his  picture  of  The  Merciful 
Knight,  painted  after  he  came  under  the  early 
delicious  influence  of  Tuscany;  and  in  no  work 
of  his  later  years  has  he  more  nobly  extracted 
the  truth  which  lies  at  the  heart  of  a  legend.  An 
admirable  critic  (Fortunec  de  Lisle)  has  written 
thus  of  it: 

"  It  is  taken  from  the  Florentine  legend  of  San 
Giovanni  Gualberto,  who,  riding  forth  on  a  cer- 
tain Good  Friday  to  accomplish  his  vow  of  ven- 
geance on  the  murderer  of  his  brother,  came 
upon  him  alone  and  unarmed  in  the  desolate 
road  which  leads  to  San  Miniato,  and  stayed  his 
uplifted  sword,  and  forgave  the  assassin,  when, 
extending  his  arms  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  he 
begged  for  mercy  in  the  name  of  Him  who,  dy- 
ing on  that  day,  forgave  his  murderers." 

"The  legend  says  that,  letting  his  enemy  de- 
part, Gualberto  entered  a  wayside  shrine,  and 
knelt  before  the  crucifix,  and  that  the  figure  of 
Christ  bent  down  and  embraced  him,  "in  token 
that  his  act  had  pleased  God."  From  that  mo- 
ment all  earthly  passions  and  desires  fell  from 
him ;  he  forsook  the  world,  and  entered  the  mon- 

[185] 


SOME  ARTISTS   OF  THE 

astery  of  San  Miniato,  and  later  became  the 
founder  of  the  Order  of  Vallombrosa.  *  *  * 
No  picture  of  a  miracle  that  has  ever  been 
painted  carries  with  it  a  more  intense  and  awe- 
inspiring  sense  of  the  reality  of  a  supernatural 
event  than  this  one;  and  the  tour  de  force  the 
painter  has  accomplished  is  this,  that  the  im- 
pression left  on  the  mind  of  the  beholder  who 
has  gazed  entranced  on  its  mystic  beauty  is  not 
of  the  strangeness  and  impossibility  of  the 
event,  nor  of  mere  admiration  for  the  skill  with 
which  it  is  depicted;  it  is  an  all-pervading  sense 
of  the  mystical  element  which  so  impregnates 
the  atmosphere  of  the  picture  as  to  compel  ac- 
ceptance of  the  facts  presented,  in  the  simple 
unquestioning  spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The 
mind  is  exalted  into  a  region  of  spiritual  mys- 
teries where  all  things  are  felt  to  be  possible, 
and  an  overpowering  conviction  is  borne  in  upon 
one,  that  in  such  a  place,  at  such  a  time,  and 
under  such  circumstances,  at  the  great  crisis  of 
his  soul's  history — whether  the  statue  in  very  fact 
turned  itself  towards  him  becomes  immaterial— 
Gualberto  felt  that  embrace,  which  changed  the 
current  of  his  life." 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  The  Merciful 
Knight  with  the  finished  story  of  Pygmalion 
and  the  Image,  which  was  first  exhibited  in 
1879,  especially  with  the  third  of  the  four  pic- 
tures which  he  called  The  Godhead  Fires,  of 

[186] 


NINETEENTH   CENTURY 

which  the  same  critic  writes: 

"It  shows  the  completion  of  human  work  by 
divine  power.  Pygmalion  has  gone  to  the  tem- 
ple to  pray;  and,  human  passion  having  with- 
drawn itself,  the  divine  presence  enters;  and  the 
goddess  of  Love,  herself  borne  on  a  cloud,  doves 
fluttering  beneath  her  feet,  heaven's  sphere-like 
radiance  about  her  head,  with  uplifted  right 
hand  sends  a  thrill  of  life  quivering  through  the 
marble  limbs.  Half  woman,  half  statue,  yet 
with  bewildered  soul  gazing  from  the  awakening 
eyes,  Galatea  bends  forward  with  swaying 
motion,  and  her  outstretched  hands  find  support 
on  the  raised  arm  of  the  divinity."  (Pp.  118- 

19.) . 

It  is  easy  to  indicate  in  what  Burne- Jones  fell 
short  of  the  very  highest  attainment.  No  one 
knew  it  better  than  he  did.  But  he  had  no  rival 
as  an  idealist  in  art,  in  that  glorious  realm  of 
poetic  insight  where  imagination  and  fancy  com- 
bine with  reason  and  the  most  delicate  percep- 
tion of  the  senses,  except  his  great  contemporary, 
Watts;  and  as  I  mentioned  Watts'  oral  tribute 
to  his  friend's  greatness,  I  may  add  Rossetti's 
verdict  written  to  another  than  myself.  "If, 
as  I  hold,  the  noblest  picture  is  a  painted  poem, 
then  I  say  that  in  the  whole  history  of  Art 
there  has  never  been  a  painter  more  highly 
gifted  than  Burne- Jones  with  the  highest  qual- 
ities of  poetic  invention." 

[187] 


SOME  ARTISTS  OF  THE 

I  conclude  with  two  extracts  from  his  letters. 
In  one  he  wrote  to  me: 

"I  am  without  any  exception  the  very  worst 
correspondent  that  ever  lived."  In  an  earlier  one, 
he  refers  to  an  introduction  to  him  which  I  had 
received  from  a  common  friend,  who  had  given 
me  a  letter  to  him  and  another  to  Watts  at  the 
same  time;  and  as — when  I  called  at  his  resi- 
dence, at  Kensington — I  had  inadvertently  sent 
in  the  one  addressed  to  Watts,  I  afterwards 
asked  for  its  return.  He  wrote  from  the  Grange : 
"Here  is  the  introduction  to  Watts.  To  say 
truth  it  is  the  one  I  read  when  the  maid  brought 
me  your  card,  and  I  thought  it  was  nice  of  you 
to  feel  that  it  was  interchangeable!  Don't  for- 
get us  in  June." 

CHICAGO. 

IN  closing  this  course  of  Scammon  Art  Lec- 
tures in  Chicago,  I  wish  to  say  in  a  single 
farewell  sentence  that  it   has  been  a  real 
pleasure   to  me  to  revisit  your  great  city 
after  some  years  of  absence  from  it,  and  more 
especially  to  note  the  signs  of  advance  which  you 
are  making  along  artistic  as  well  as  literary  and 
scientific  lines.     I  hope  that  some  of  the  thoughts 
submitted  to  my  audience  may  be  as  seeds  which 
will  bye  and  bye  develop  and  bear  fruit.  It  is  the 
aim  of  every  lecturer,  especially  a  University  one, 
to  diffuse  as  far  and  wide  as  he  can  any  of  the 
ideas  which  he  has  himself  reached,  or  the  con- 

[188] 


NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

elusions  he  has  come  to.  In  this  short  course 
we  have  been  traversing  some  of  the  inter- 
related sections  of  the  three  great  realms  of  the 
True,  the  Beautiful,  and  the  Good;  and  I  trust 
that  you  all  feel  with  our  great  poet  Tennyson 
that  they  are 

three  sisters 

That  dote  upon  each  other,  friends  to  man, 
And  never  can  be  sundered  without  tears. 

I  trust  that  none  of  you  have  been  wearied  by 

my  treatment    of  the   problems,   and   the 

personalities  that  have  come  before  us ; 

but  that,  some  of  you  have  been 

refreshed,  and  others  of  you 

stimulated. 


VALE  QUI  LEGIS 


[189] 


x 


PS 

w 


o 

X 

o 


w 

> 

Q 


PLATE  XLVII 


THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM   [fragment] 
Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer 


PLATE  XL VII I 


Photograph   by   F.   Hollycr 


VESPERTIXA  QUIES 


PLATE  XLIX 


Photograph  by  F.  Hollyer  AURORA 


PLATE  L 


THE  GOLDEN  STAIRS 


from 

APR  15  1916 


LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  670  689     9 


